


Through The Bone

by Maeerin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Blood and Gore, Descriptive Nightmares, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Angst, More angst, Nightmares, Suicidal Themes, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's relationship is put to the test when a building collapses and a traumatic decision is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm posting this in a haste because it is for FortheloveofJawn for her birthday!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
> 
> If there are any mistakes, I apologize. This wasn't planned entirely. 
> 
> Pay attention to the tags, there'll be more as this goes on. There will be about 3-5 chapters. I just have more in-between scenes to write and add a little bit more detail. So be patient, updates won't be regular. but I WILL finish this by the end of the month. Worst case we are looking at mid-October.
> 
> Italicized texts are flashbacks, thoughts, or dreams.
> 
> Enjoy :)

**Chapter 1**

_There should be more blood,_ Sherlock thought.

There was barely any—a pint or two—no, three—three pints. 1.5 liters. Double it, and John would have bled out and it would have been too late. It wasn’t much blood, just almost half of the average amount in a human body. Sherlock was aware that most was soaked through his trousers, and there were splotches along his rolled up sleeves, and that his hands were stained pink. He was aware of his feet moving in front of him, voices yelling around him, and John’s unmoving body being wheeled further and further away from him as the seconds tick by.

Gentle hands grasped his shoulders, bringing him to a halt. Sherlock blinked a few times, but his vision didn’t focus. Someone was staring at him, and his lips were moving—he was speaking, but Sherlock couldn’t find the will to comprehend him, nor could he bother.

Sherlock nodded anyway. He was pushed gently and then he felt an uncomfortably padded seat underneath him. The man walked away after squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock was alone, but then he finally noticed that his hands weren’t shaking at all. He was utterly still in the middle of chaos.

*            *            *

_Sherlock slowly awoke, groaning. His head throbbed and something was wet and sticky on his forehead. He opened his eyes to a dusty atmosphere, and then as he inhaled, he coughed hoarsely._

_Sherlock stiffly sat up, his back aching, no doubt bruised. He glanced around, and his breathing hitched._

_John was on his back, pinned underneath a pile of rubble. His right leg, just below the knee, was pinned under some rubble, and his jeans were covered in blood—_

_Sherlock suddenly turned away and vomited. A sharp ache shivered from his head to his back, and it took him many seconds to focus his vision. He glanced at John, and then stiffly crawled to him._

_Above him, several floors were collapsed on top of each other, providing some space for them in a triangle-like shell. Most of the rubble was on the right, over John’s leg. His other leg wasn’t pinned, but there was still some rubble over it, and over his abdomen. Sherlock carefully moved a piece off his chest, and then John suddenly inhaled and reached towards him._

_“Sh’lock?” John coughed hoarsely and winced._

_Sherlock looked at him. John’s eyes were squinted and his head was also covered in blood. He met Sherlock’s gaze, and offered a pained grin._

_“You all right?”_

_“I’m fine,” Sherlock insisted. “Your leg’s pinned, and I—I think I can hear people outside.”_

_John nodded once. “We’ll get out. We will.”_

_Sherlock glanced around the small space, deductions flying at him with complete and unwanted understanding._

_“If—if they move the rubble, the rest of the building will fall. There’s some space above us on the left—big enough to fit through if we’re lifted out…but we won’t be able to climb it without everything falling apart—_

_“Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock inhaled and looked at John. John moved his hand and grasped his, squeezing it reassuringly._

_“You’re rambling,” he said._

_Sherlock huffed and took his hand away. “You’re pinned. You won’t be able to get out.”_

_“We’ll find a way,” John insisted roughly. “We always do.”_

***            *            ***

The air was too fresh, too cold against his lungs as John inhaled a waking breath. He heard beeping beside him, murmuring on his left, and he felt something heavy beside his right arm. John opened his eyes, but the room was blurry. He blinked rapidly, and it slowly cleared up, and then the heavy figure beside him shifted and stepped closer into his line of sight.

John could make out the blob of curls on Sherlock’s head, and slowly his face came into focus. John blinked heavily with exhaustion and he reached out to Sherlock, but Sherlock didn’t take his hand as he spoke. John focused, and he started to catch a few words, but Sherlock was mostly rambling.

“Shh,” John mumbled. Sherlock trailed off and sat up on the edge of the bed. He diverted his gaze to John’s lap, but still didn’t take John’s offered hand.

John cleared his throat. “Alright?” he sighed. His head was starting to hurt, and he knew he was about to fall asleep soon. He blinked heavily and urged himself to keep his gaze on Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, and diverted his gaze to the floor. John could see his lip and hands trembling. John stretched his hand and grazed Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock flinched and then, as if catching himself, stilled and slowly relaxed.

John furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” he slurred.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and hopped off the bed. He turned around and ran a shaky hand through his curls as he paced a few steps. He stepped closers to John’s bed and then took John’s hands in his own, squeezing them tightly.

“Do you…remember anything?” Sherlock asked. John kept his brows furrowed, not understanding the vague question. He tried to recall the past few hours. He remembered the roof collapsing, and being trapped for a while, but after that, nothing. He didn’t remember being rescued.

John squeezed Sherlock hands. “What happened?” John asked tiredly. “How’d we get out?”

Sherlock looked at him for a brief moment. “We—you passed out. You were pinned, John—I had to, I—.”

“Shh,” John tiredly attempted. His vision blurred and he coughed again. _I’ve been intubated,_ John thought. _Surgery…_

And then he remembered. He remembered the debris, heavy metal and brick, drywall and who knows what else, pinned on top of him. He remembered Sherlock’s panic attack, his own calmness—which probably hadn’t had helped Sherlock.

John inhaled sharply and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Show me,” was all he said. He wasn’t sure exactly what Sherlock had to do, but he had a gut feeling.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then shook his head, sniffling slightly. John just then noticed the bandage on Sherlock’s forehead, and the dust and blood all over his shirt and jacket.

Sherlock moved to foot of the bed and lifted up the alabaster blanket, without looking at John. John looked downward, and saw his leg, a thick bandage wrapped around the knee and then his leg stopped there.

*            *            *

_“John, the medical supplies are here.”_

_John opened his eyes and looked up. A blurry hole shined above him, and then Sherlock’s face appeared, distorting it. He focused on Sherlock’s face and hummed in response._

_“How are they going to…” John trailed off, but he could tell Sherlock understood him._

_“They sent a radio down. They’ll talk me through it.” Sherlock’s voice hitched and he froze, his gaze hardening. John turned his head to him and shifted his arm. Mild pain shot through it; he was still in shock, and would pass out soon._

_“You can do this. We talked about it.”_

_Sherlock didn’t blink._

_John sighed hoarsely. “I trust you—.”_

_“No,” Sherlock choked out. He shifted away, dropping the supplies, and cowered near the pile of rubble away from John._

_John looked at him, but Sherlock wouldn’t look back._

_“Fine,” John sighed. Sherlock startled and looked up._

_John looked at him fiercely. “Go. Leave me—.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened. “No, John. I’ll find away, just—.”_

_John shook his head roughly. “You don’t have to do this. You can go. You can live—.”_

_“Shut up, John!”_

_“Sherlock—.”_

_“Shut up! Shut up! Please, John—.” Sherlock inhaled sharply and curled in on himself. He clutched his head, and breathed heavily. John’s heart clenched when he realized Sherlock’s breathing was uneven._

_“Shit, Sherlock, I’m—.” John inhaled painfully and sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, softer. “Please, Sherlock, come here.”_

_Sherlock gasped and stiffly crawled closer to John. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against John’s._

_“Breathe, Sherlock,” John whispered._

_Sherlock inhaled deeply._

_“Hold it in,” John encouraged. Sherlock did so._

_“And out,” John said._

_Sherlock exhaled, and then repeated the action. They remained like that for several minutes, and as Sherlock’s breathing calmed down, a voice spoke from the radio._

_“Got the supplies?”_

_Sherlock hastily reached for it. “Yeah,” he answered roughly._

_“All right, here’s what you’ll need to do first. Place the oxygen mask over his mouth. Is he aware?”_

_“He is,” Sherlock confirmed, slowly stabilizing his voice. John held his hand tightly._

_“All right. You may have to sedate him. You need to examine the wound. Are there any open cuts?”_

_Sherlock shuffled to John’s legs, and looked closely. He froze suddenly, and then dropped the radio and turned around. He vomited against the rubble and coughed harshly. John cringed at the possibilities of what Sherlock could have seen, and waited with rising dread as Sherlock reached for the radio._

_Sherlock’s eyes flickered once to John, and then back to the ground, avoiding his leg._

_“There’s a bone, sticking out. Broken, um, the fibula…”_

_“All right, you’ll have to…”_

_The voice trailed off as the scene blurred from John’s perspective. He suddenly felt sick, and stiffly turned his head to the side as he vomited. The smell reeked against his nostrils, and he tried to shift away but couldn’t seem to move._

_Steady hands grasped his shoulders and shifted him a couple of inches away. John opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them tightly, and focused on Sherlock._

_“I need to start,” Sherlock said._

_John nodded roughly and took his hand. “I’m going to pass out,” John insisted. “Will you be all right?”_

_Sherlock’s eyes flickered. “You’ll resent me…” he uttered in a low whisper._

_John shook his head stiffly. “No, I promise, I won’t.”_

_Sherlock stared at him for a moment, unresponsive. And then, slowly, he nodded._

_John raised an eyebrow, indicating his question again._

_Sherlock swallowed tightly and nodded once more. “I’ll be fine.”_

*            *            *

John stared at his right leg—or what was left of it—for several seconds before lying back down against the pillow. Sherlock hastily pulled the blanket back in the place and then sat in his chair, avoiding John’s tired stare.

“Are you alright?” John asked shakily. He couldn’t think about his own situation without making sure Sherlock was all right. The doctor in him told him everything he was going to have to go through—his whole lifestyle was going to be altered. He wouldn’t be able to do certain things, run after criminals for example—at least, not for a while.

John shook his head minutely and focused on Sherlock, who was still staring at the blanket.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock slowly looked at him, offered a weak grin, and then looked away. “I’m fine, John. You should get some rest.”

John shook his head and outstretched his arm towards Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then took it, squeezing it tightly.

“You managed,” John said softly. “I knew you could.”

Sherlock huffed and shifted, as if he wanted to remove his hand, but he didn’t. He still didn’t look at John, and focused intently on the off-white tile floors beneath him.

***            *            ***

John awoke later the next morning, a shiver running through his body. He pulled the covers over his chest as he reached for the bed remote to move his bed upwards. As he opened his eyes, the room swayed, and he stopped moving the bed, feeling nauseous.

Sherlock moved swiftly beside him and looked down. John blinked rapidly, but his vision continued to blur as the room swayed.

“You’re a little feverish,” Sherlock said. John moaned slightly as his head started to ache. He was starting to feel cold though, and it took him a few seconds to process Sherlock’s comment.

 _Oh_.

“Infection?” John slurred. Sherlock nodded slowly.

“The doctor is running some tests, and is keeping an eye on it. Do you need anything?”

John smiled weakly at Sherlock’s offer. He raised his hand and trailed his finger along Sherlock’s cheek, only for Sherlock to flinch away. Sherlock covered it up by settling back in his chair, but by the way he was avoiding John’s gaze, something was wrong.

“Talk to me,” John said tiredly.

“No,” Sherlock almost snapped. He squeezed John’s hand, and then let it go. “Get some rest. I’ll get you some water.”

“Not thirsty,” John murmured.

“You need to stay hydrated.” Sherlock quickly left the room before John could respond. He returned a minute later, and helped John in a sitting position before handing him the cup. John gulped it down much to his earlier protest, and then sighed back with a slight grimace.

“Now what?” John asked lazily.

Sherlock sat down and focused on John’s hand. “You’ll start physically therapy soon, with a crutch. But not until the fever goes down.”

“Mhm,” John sighed. “Entertain me?” he asked lightly.

Sherlock glanced at him. John smiled at him, tiredly yet, warmly. Sherlock’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, and shook his head. John felt himself bristle, but he wasn’t sure why. He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

“Is something wrong?” John asked seriously, his tiredness slowly becoming forgotten.

Sherlock shook his head too quickly to be convincing. “No, John, I just want you rest—.”

“Enough with that,” John interrupted. “Something is bothering you. You can barely look at me—hell, even touch me. What is it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, the doctor walked in. Sherlock relaxed his face and turned to face the doctor, noticeably avoiding John’s outstretched hand and gaze.

The doctor got straight to the point. “After we ran some tests, it looks like you have a blood infection. I’ve ordered some antibiotics, and for the next few days, we’ll keep a close eye on you. Hopefully it doesn’t become serious. The least we’re looking at is a fever.”

John nodded absently, distracted by his concern for Sherlock. Just as the doctor left, his nausea worsened, and he was shivering. Sherlock laid out another blanket and fiddled with it until John stopped shivering, and then hovered by his bed, holding a bucket, but remained silent the entire time.

“Sherlock…” John whispered. Sherlock was upright immediately and stepped closer, however possible. John met his gaze, but Sherlock only looked at him distantly, and not with any of the usual fondness or concern, but with reluctance. John sighed, aggravated, and opened his mouth to speak, but was hit with a sudden wave of nausea.

John sat up and just as the bucket was placed in front of him, he vomited. He cleared his throat and then leaned back. Sherlock removed the bucket and rearranged the blanket, keeping quiet for a moment longer as John settled back against the pillow. 

“I’m a fucking mess,” John gasped. Sherlock didn’t flinch from John’s sudden outburst, and continued to fix the blanket before taking a step back.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—,” Sherlock started.

“No. Of course not,” John said hoarsely. “How could you think that?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered. John sighed tiredly and moved the bed up a little bit so he could face Sherlock.

“Please,” John started. “Talk to me.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and for a moment, closed his eyes. John thought he was thinking, but then swiftly, Sherlock stood up and barely glimpsed back at John before he left the room, clicking the door shut behind him.

John gritted his teeth and lay back down. His body shivered slightly, and his head started to ache again. He fell into a restless sleep, only to have his mind swarmed by fever dreams and illusions.

_John widened his eyes as the room around him shifted. It was an empty operating room; the tiles were spotless, and the usual equipment had been put away. Above him there was a bright light, but other than that, the room was encased with shadows and an eerie silence._

_John exhaled and shivered. His body was damp, and he looked down to examine himself only to see his clothes drenched in sweat. His body was pushed forward, and as he thought he was going to fall, John blinked and then he was on a stretcher, unmoving, and still in the operating room._

_John sat up and leaned against his elbows. In front of him, Sherlock was there. He was wearing trousers and a button up shirt, and he was nearly soaked in blood. For a moment John thought he was remembering that time Sherlock had slaughtered a pig, but then his vision registered the item in his hand. Instead of a harpoon, it was an amputated leg, recognizable to him despite being bare of any clothing or shoe._

_John’s stomach lurched and he gagged dryly. He started to breath quickly, and blinked several times to urge himself to either wake up or change the setting. Instead, Sherlock appeared closer, empty handed apart form a surgical saw in his hand._

_“You shouldn’t feel this,” Sherlock muttered._

_“Wake up,” another voice said._

_John squeezed his eyes shut and groaned._

_“Wake up.”_

_John made a gagging noise and shifted. His heart pounded in his chest and he clenched his fists, but he couldn’t do anything else. Sherlock remained leaning over him, his eyes slowly becoming colder and his face hardening with indifference._

***            *            ***

Sherlock continued to wipe John’s forehead, and managed to bring his temperature down slightly, however it was still too high. John mumbled and squirmed in his sleep, and his brows were furrowed in pain. Sherlock regretted leaving him earlier; he wished he hadn’t but he couldn’t stop the guilt overwhelming him. John just didn’t seem to get it, and was still looking at him with affection and not a hint of blame. Sherlock didn’t understand, which was another feeling overwhelming him, taking his breath away and aggravating his nerves.

Abruptly, John inhaled sharply, and clenched the sheets with his fist. Sherlock stilled in his movements, and then placed the cloth over John’s forehead. He leaned closer, placing his hand over John’s shoulder and shaking him slightly.

“John?”

John groaned and moved his head away; his face was scrunching in pain, and he was starting to sweat again. His breathing increased, and began to sound rapid. The machine beside the bed beeped louder, and Sherlock turned to look at it. John’s heart rate was increasing.

Sherlock quickly pressed the nurse call button, and then shook John again. “Wake up, John. Tell me, what’s wrong—.”

John moved his head towards Sherlock’s voice, and inhaled sharply. “My leg—”

Sherlock looked towards his leg, but John was moving too roughly, and then he realized.

_Oh, it’s phantom pain…_

Sherlock pressed his hands on John’s shoulders and shook him harder. John squirmed and leaned away from Sherlock as far as he could. His eyes were moving beneath his lids, and he was muttering under his breath. Sherlock bit his lip, at a loss of what to do. He tried to reach for John’s hand, but John’s fist was clenched tightly in the sheet, it was difficult to unravel it. Sherlock sighed with aggravation and then paused.

He took a step closer to John’s legs, removed the blanket, and then held John’s knee with his hands. Sherlock held it still, and then tried to massage the thigh, going upwards in firm rotations. John relaxed for a moment, and his brows furrowed in confusion. Suddenly, he bolted upright and glared at Sherlock.

“Don’t touch me!” John gasped.

Sherlock flinched and took several steps back. John gritted his teeth and fluttered his eyes closed as he fell back into the dream. Sherlock trembled ad slowly tried to catch his breath. John’s eyes had stared at him, entirely unfocused and clearly unaware, but his words still hurt. Sherlock swallowed tightly, and stiffly sat in the reclining chair that was furthest away from John, and settled down. He pulled his coat around his arms tightly, and resigned to watch John carefully until he was out of the dream for real. Sherlock hoped John wouldn’t remember it; otherwise he would never forgive himself. Their relationship was being tested—Sherlock could feel it. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, he vowed to himself and to John he was going to make this right. But he knew John had to try too; and if he knew about what he had said, John would feel guilty and distance himself, and Sherlock knew he himself could not handle that. They needed time to work things out, but first, John had to wake up.

*            *            *

John woke up later the next morning to an empty room. He stiffly sat up, comprehending only for a moment that he wasn’t feeling feverish anymore, and pressed the nurse’s button. A young woman walked in and greeted him as she looked over his vitals.

“Feeling alright?” she asked warmly.

John nodded. “Where-where’s Sherlock?” he asked hoarsely.

Before she could answer, Sherlock walked in with a slight rush in his step. He looked over John’s body, as if checking on his wellbeing, and then relaxed in his chair. The nurse smiled sympathetically at John, and then left. John settled back against the pillow, and took a deep breath to try to calm himself down.

“John?” Sherlock spoke hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” John replied through his clenched teeth. He felt panic arising, but couldn’t find a reason way. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concern, and leaned forward, although he still remained in his chair, furthest from John, in the corner.

“You’ll start physical therapy today. It’ll just be stretches though,” Sherlock informed him. John nodded absentmindedly, and tried to focus on that rather than the rising panic.

Sherlock fell silent, but his eyes were flickering as if he was thinking of what to say next. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He held his breath for a moment, and then slowly let it out. His chest relaxed just slightly, so he repeated the process.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock murmured. John stilled and opened his eyes. He looked at Sherlock closely, and then with a start he started to understand.

“Is that why you’ve been distant?” John asked carefully.

Sherlock didn’t meet his gaze and instead focused on the hospital-issued blankets. John took that as an answer.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed sadly. “I’m fine—I—,” he stuttered.

Sherlock blinked and hardened his expression. “Don’t patronize me. I’m not fragile!”

“Then talk to me!” John snapped back. He winced from his tone, but Sherlock didn’t, and finally looked at him, albeit with a hard expression and lacking his earlier concern. John stared back at him, softer.

“It is fine,” John repeated.

“How can it be?” Sherlock asked harshly. “I did this—,”

“No, you didn’t,” John insisted. He ignored the voice in the back of his mind, the anger and blame he did have, but didn’t completely believe in. John didn’t blame Sherlock and he knew Sherlock did what he had to do; he didn’t have any other choice—not one he would have considered. But it seemed John’s subconscious was now associating Sherlock with his current state, which was unfair but unrelenting. So he ignored it and lied. John would do so until he fully accepted it, and until Sherlock fully came to terms with it as well. It should just be a matter of time.

“You did what you had to. Aren’t you glad I’m here?” John asked. “There wasn’t any other way.”

“Of course I’m relieved you’re here, John,” Sherlock replied. His tone softened as well as his facial expression. He relaxed slightly and uncurled his fists. John lay against the pillows and patted the mattress.

“Come here.”

Sherlock didn’t move for several seconds, and John started to dread he wouldn’t come at all. But then Sherlock shifted, and slowly moved to the side of the bed. He removed his coat and settled against John, tensely. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him closer.

“I’m still here, Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock sighed and leaned closer. He wrapped his arm around John’s midriff, and rested his face against John’s shoulder.

“I still feel…” Sherlock trailed off.

“I know. That’ll take time. Just as long as you know that _I_ don’t blame you.”

Sherlock nodded, and slowly started to relax.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. John grinned softly and breathed in Sherlock’s scent, relaxing him.

“I love you, too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit shorter than I wanted, but I like the way this one ends and that means there will be more than 3 chapters like I had planned. Comment please!
> 
> WARNING: mentions of cannibalism
> 
> Enjoy.

**Chapter 2**

“Ready to stand?” the physical therapist, Alex, asked.

John sat on the bed with his legs over the edge and his palms beside him holding him upright. He nodded once, and then leaned forward, accepting Alex’s hands on his upper arm and waist, which held him steady. Sherlock was on his left side, mirroring Alex’s caution.

John slid off the bed and shifted to the left, leaning heavily on his left leg. Alex and Sherlock slid their hands to John’s hands, and held him upright. John held onto their hands firmly as he focused on steadying his balance. He exhaled slowly and managed to stay still for several seconds.

But then John’s leg buckled underneath him, and he started to fall down, gasping slightly with surprise. Sherlock’s hold tightened and he held him up by the waist. Alex lifted him too, and started to help him sit back onto the bed.

“No, no, I’m fine,” John insisted. He was really getting tired of that word, but couldn’t think of anything else appropriate.

“Are you sure?” Alex asked. John nodded and shifted away from the bed. He straightened up and then nodded to the chair.

“Should I sit? Start some exercises?” John offered. He wanted to do something; he hadn’t gotten out of bed for nothing after all. It was still to early for him to try on a prosthetic, but it’s been long enough since the surgery that he could do some stretches at least.

“Of course,” Alex agreed. He handed him a pair of crutches. John used it to walk to the chair, and managed without any help. Sherlock’s hand grazed his waist just in case, but John was quick enough before Sherlock could help him any further. John was grateful of course, but he knew what he could and couldn’t do.

He sat down with a sigh and then lifted his stump—he wasn’t sure what else to call it yet—and placed it on footrest in front of him. What he saw took him by surprise.

John hadn’t really seen it this close or for this long, except in his nightmares. It had only been five days since he had surgery, but he had been plagued with them every night, unfortunately with Sherlock right by his side. But on the bright side of all things traumatizing, Sherlock hadn’t asked about the nightmares. He simply comforted John until he was calm, and stayed awake as John fell back asleep. John knew Sherlock didn’t go back to sleep, but he didn’t question him. Sherlock didn’t seem to know the context of the nightmares at least—the gruesome gore was one thing, the black-and-white blame that encased John’s mind during the dreams was nightmarish and another issue all on its own.

He blinked heavily and focused on his wound. He relaxed his face, and looked up at Alex, raising an eyebrow. “Where do we begin?”

*            *            *

John settled into the bed after a couple hours of stretching. He had done quite a few, took a break and had lunch, and then insisted he do more. He felt more suited in his body now, but he was feeling an odd sensation in his right thigh, leading down to the wound. He tried to ignore it and focus on Sherlock instead, who was looking at him with something akin to fondness.

John’s breath was taken away for a second, and he lightened his expression. “What?” he asked gently.

Sherlock blinked and his expression faltered in a way in which his fondness grew rather than dissipated. It seemed Sherlock was having trouble keeping himself controlled.

“It’s just…” Sherlock trailed off and softly smiled hesitantly. “You did good today,” he offered.

John blinked with surprise and slowly grinned at him. Sherlock smiled a little bigger and he sat down on the edge of the bed. He lowered his gaze with hesitation, and his throat moved with nervousness. John peered at him with rising concern, but then he was pushed back against the pillow gently as Sherlock started to kiss him.

His kisses were closed and chaste—peck after peck on John’s lip, and slowly becoming less frequent after each one, the next one becoming more affectionate and lasting longer. He pressed once more against John’s mouth, and parted his mouth slightly with a silent invitation. John hesitantly deepened the kiss, but the feeling in his leg started to increase and distract him.

Sherlock’s hands gently rested against John’s waist, and he trailed his left hand down his hip and towards his thigh. His hand was hesitant, and as it merely grazed the start of John’s thigh, he flinched. John jerked suddenly, and pulled apart. Sherlock’s eyes flickered with hurt and guilt, and he increased the distance between them.

“John—”

“Sherlock, wait, what if someone walks in?” John hurriedly asked. He didn’t want Sherlock to apologize for flinching, nor did he want to apologize for jerking away. John wasn’t sure if he pulled away _because_ Sherlock had flinched, or because of where Sherlock’s hand was going.

Sherlock furrowed his brows for a moment, and then he swiftly stood up and headed to the door. John started to feel nervous; he wasn’t sure what he wanted at the moment, but he wasn’t feeling very sexy, or even turned on, and was surprised Sherlock was even initiating anything at all.

Sherlock started to lock the door, but then it opened in his face. He hardened his gaze as the nurse walked in, carrying John’s dinner. She set it down and then looked at Sherlock for what seemed a second longer, and than closed the door with a clinical smile. As the door clicked, John giggled softly as Sherlock’s face flickered with annoyance.

He sat down in the chair as John started to eat. He didn’t mention their interrupted activities, and John thought it was for the best. They would have plenty of time anyway. John however, was a little bit relieved they had been interrupted. He wasn’t against receiving any affection, but he wasn’t sure what was going on in Sherlock’s mind, and whether he’d want to receive any from him. John’s body was different and as a doctor, self-consciousness could increase when the body changes dramatically in a short period of time. They’d both have to get used to the change, and John hoped one of them would challenge it soon. It should only be a matter of time.

*            *            *

_In front of John, his right leg was being chopped into smaller pieces. He didn’t feel a shiver run through his body, or even the need to scream because of it. He just sat there as he saw Sherlock slicing into his old flesh and muscle. But as Sherlock looked up at him, his green eyes glinting, John’s blood ran cold._

_Sherlock was laughing._

John sat up immediately as the vision vanished. He inhaled sharply and didn’t bother blinking away the remnants of sleep. His eyesight was blurring and he vaguely registered someone talking to him, but he just needed to catch his breath first. He inhaled sharply and sharply again, but his lungs weren’t getting enough air.

“John?”

John gasped and his vision came into sudden focus. He looked up at Sherlock, who was looking down at him with a tremendous amount of concern. He inhaled shakily, and slowly started to feel enough oxygen enter his body. Sherlock’s hand was on his back and rubbing it in soothing circles. John focused on the feel of his lover’s hand against his bare back, and breathed in slowly. His other senses slowly came back to his awareness, and he continued to calm down.

After several minutes, he was against his pillows and staring up at Sherlock with an apologetic expression.

“I didn’t startle you, did I?” John asked hoarsely. He thought he might have been screaming, but he didn’t really want to know.

Sherlock shook his head. “I knew it was coming. You had been tossing and turning for a while before you awoke.”

“Oh.” John sighed and looked up at the ceiling, only then Sherlock continued.

“You might be discharged today,” he informed.

John’s eyebrows shot up. “Already?”

Sherlock nodded with a promising grin. “Alex will show you some exercises you can do at home, and then you should be able to leave by the evening. You’ll have physical therapy sessions three to four times a week for a while though.”

“That’s good,” John insisted. He sighed with relief and offered a small smile. “I can’t wait to be back at home.”

Sherlock smiled back and squeezed his hand assuringly. 

*            *            *

John carefully applied the crutches on the pavement and climbed out of the cab. He stiffly lifted himself up and leaned to the left as he pulled himself forward. Sherlock climbed out behind him and grazed his lower back with offered assistance, but John picked up his pace a little bit and stabilized his balance against the crutches. He walked to the front door with careful ease, and waited patiently as Sherlock caught up to him and unlocked the door.

Inside, John walked in but came to a hesitated pause as he eyed the stairs. Sherlock stopped behind him, and John could sense he was about to lift his hand up to hold him from the back, so he quickly lifted his crutches and placed them on the step.

“I can manage,” John said, confidently. He lifted himself up and stepped onto the stair, and then moved his crutches to the next one, and repeated.

It took him a little longer than usual to get up the stairs (which shouldn’t have surprised him so much), and by the time he made it in the sitting room John was out of breath. He shakily hopped to his armchair and sat down with a tired sigh. Sherlock strutted around the rooms, putting their things away, John’s medicine in the bathroom, placing the wheelchair by the door, and then continued pacing empty handed. John let out another tired sigh and looked up at him.

“What?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Do you want to do some exercises?”

“I’m okay for now.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I can’t push myself too hard, and hurt myself. Besides, I have physical therapy tomorrow. Alex is coming at two.”

“Here? Why can’t you go there, you’re perfectly capable of—”

John held up a hand and cut him off. “I would if Alex would let me. But it’s a precaution for now. He doesn’t want me to get too exhausted to heal.”

“Alright…” Sherlock slowly came to a halt and put his hands in his pocket. John yawned. Within seconds, Sherlock was by his side with a blanket and pillow.

“Did you want to rest? I can help you to bed—”

“I’m fine, Sherlock—”

“You yawned—”

“It was just a reflex. I’ll be fine for a few more hours.”

“It’s only three o’clock.”

“Well, then I’ll have an early dinner and then go to bed,” John said, surely. “Don’t fret.”

Sherlock looked put out for a split second, and then tossed the pillow and blanket onto the table and then sat down in his own sitting chair.

They sat in silence for several minutes. Sherlock’s face became still, and John knew he was slowly going into his mind palace. He waited a few minutes, and once he was sure Sherlock was deep enough, he stiffly sat up and reached for his crutches. He placed them under his arm and then walked towards the bathroom.

Upon entering, he put the aids aside and then sat down. He ran his hand down his right thigh and started massaging it, but with a grimace. His leg had been hurting more now, and it wasn’t settling down. He massaged the thigh, but avoided going beyond the knee.

John paused and realized with resignation that he still smelled like the hospital. Liking the idea of a shower, he stood up with one aid under his right arm; he stiffly walked to the shower and turned it on. Once it was on, he sat down and started to undress.

John left his jeans for last. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t had time to alter all of his pants—so far, she had gotten to his pajamas, so his jeans were just tied in a knot at the knee of the right pant leg. John didn’t have to bother unraveling it though, so he slowly took them off, keeping his eyes focused intently on the zipper, and then on the jeans as he put them away.

Sitting on the toilet, only in his pants, John’s eyes flickered for a second to his stump, and instantly felt sick. He looked away and swallowed tightly. He hadn’t looked that often—he avoided to as much as he could. But now that he was alone, looking at it was different. He was able to pretend everything was okay when Sherlock was in the room, and kept his face resigned and accepting. But in private, the lack of his leg made him uncomfortable. John scrunched his face and squeezed his eyes, becoming overwhelmed with emotion. He inhaled shakily and tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was only tightening.

Suddenly, there was a hurried knock on the door.

“John? Are you okay? What are you doing?” Sherlock asked through he door, his voice hitching with worry.

John cleared his throat hastily and wiped his face. “Just about to take a shower,” he called back, his voice sounding stable to him.

Sherlock tried to open the door, but John had locked it anyway.

“Can I come in?” Sherlock asked.

John stiffly stood up and leaned against a crutch as he looked in the mirror. His face was slightly pinker, but it could easily be explained by the steam of the shower.

“Just a sec. Let me get in,” John said.

Sherlock tried opening the door again, and then he went around to the other side. John started to get into the shower before Sherlock walked in, but then he paused as Sherlock spoke.

“You left the chair out here. You need it to…” Sherlock trailed off. John looked into the shower and realized he was right. He had forgotten the chair. John inhaled deeply and flushed with embarrassment.

“Right, sorry. Could you…”

Sherlock was already through the door with the chair before John fully trailed off. He placed the chair in the shower and then paused, flickering his eyes down John’s body.

“You still have your pants on,” Sherlock pointed out. John looked down and nodded.

“I…hadn’t taken them off yet.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows briefly, and then relaxed. “Do you need any help?”

John shook his head. “Just some clothes.”

“I’ll get them.” Sherlock quickly left. John hurriedly took his pants off and sat down on the chair just before Sherlock came back. It seemed he had ran into their room for his clothes and ran back in case John needed help. John wasn’t sure how to take that.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and showered, pointedly ignoring Sherlock standing by. They had showered together countless times, at the same time and one at a time with the other still in the bathroom. But this situation was different, and it wasn’t very comfortable to John. He felt tense through the whole shower, and didn’t like the feeling of being watched.

As he rinsed his body, he cleared his throat and called out to Sherlock. “What do you want to do for dinner?”

“Take out?” Sherlock suggested, although John sensed he had already ordered some.

“Sure,” John agreed anyway. He rinsed, thinking. He didn’t want to have to dress with Sherlock in the room; he just wanted some privacy.

“Could you…change the sheets?” John asked, unsure where that question came from. He was sure Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and took a step forward, as if about to check and see if he was okay.

“It’s just that they haven’t been clean in weeks…” John justified. Sherlock took a step back.

“Mrs. Hudson had washed them already. She cleaned the flat too.”

“Oh.” _Darn._

“Could you—”

“Do you need any help, John?”

“No, no I’m fine. Could you make me some tea?”

Sherlock stuttered. “Now? You don’t want to wait until dinner?”

John shook his head, and then spoke. “No, I’m—I’m thirsty.”

“Sure…of course, John.” Sherlock hesitated and then headed to the door, where he hesitated again.

“Just…call if you need anything.”

“I will,” John said promising. _I’m not that stubborn; I just want privacy._

Sherlock slowly left. John quickly turned off the shower and reached for his towel. He dried off while he remained seated, placed the towel around his waist, and then maneuvered himself until he was sitting on the edge of the tub rather than the chair. He reached for a crutch and placed it under his right arm, and then stood up. He moved the crutch forward to take a step, but then the crutch slid against the wet floor, and John fell along with it. He tried reaching to the left for the counter but it was too late, and he landed hard on the ground onto his side, with the crutch underneath him.

The door banged open before he even had time to process. Sherlock was by his side in seconds and his arms were trying to reach under John’s, attempting to pull him upright.

“I’m fine—I said I’m fine, dammit!” John snapped. Sherlock’s hands dropped and he took a step back. John dropped his head and looked at the ground with his palms in mid action with pulling himself up. He breathed slowly through his nose and exhaled just as slowly out his mouth. He repeated a few more times, and then slowly looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Instead of seeing a pout, or even a glare, Sherlock was looking at him with apologetic sympathy, and his lip was minutely trembling. John hardened his face and shook his head as he looked away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” John said in a clipped tone. “I’m not something to pity. The crutch just slipped. It would have happened even if I just had a broken leg.”

He risked a glance, and caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s face with a hint of a pout, and a slight eye roll, before looking away.

“You worry,” John stated. He looked up again to see Sherlock slowly nodding. John sighed and shifted. Sherlock shifted but then cut off his actions. John paused and nodded once, and then Sherlock’s hands were under his arms and helping him stand. He helped John sit on the toilet seat, and then left the bathroom without another word.

John slowly dressed—not that he wanted too; he wanted to get it over worth. He was still exhausted from his hospital stay, and had wanted to just go to eat and then go to bed. Sighing, he finished putting his pajamas on, and then slowly headed out the door, using both of crutches and wary of the wet floor. He walked into the sitting room to find dinner ready on the table. Sherlock was picking at his and pointedly not looking at John. John walked over to him, leaned forward, and pressed his lips to his temple.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” John whispered. That was all that needed to be said, and after a few seconds, Sherlock nodded, and slowly looked at John.

“I’m going to be running in after the slightest thump, so you might as well get used to it.”

John stared at him, taken aback, and then he let out a small laugh. Sherlock’s mouth twitched with a grin, and then went back to his food. John sat down in his chair and began eating, feeling a little better than he expected.

*            *            *

_John ran down the alleyway, dodging the flying bullets, as he ran after Sherlock. His leg started to ache, but he continued to run and puff, and run, and run, and run—_

_His leg slipped under him and he tumbled to the ground. His leg was burning with pain now, and as John reached for it, his knee loosened and the rest of the leg just popped off._

_John’s eyes widened with horror as the blood soaked his jeans and stained his hands. He looked around for Sherlock, but the night was still, not even a gunshot._

_John shivered and tried to shout, but his voice shook from the cold._

HELP! HELP! _He thought desperately._

_The scene shifted, and then Sherlock was in front of him. John’s panic came to an eerie calm as he recognized they were in their kitchen. They were drinking wine, and then the oven timer rang._

_“Finally,” Sherlock said with excitement. He knelt down and took the dish out and placed it in front of John._

_John’s stomach lurched as he saw his right leg roasted to perfection in the pan, surrounded by vegetables and broth. Sherlock pulled out an electric knife and grinned at him._

_“Hungry?”_

John sat up with a gasp, and shivered against the cool room. He was drenched with sweat, and as he slowly caught his breath, he let out a giggle.

John shut his mouth shut, startled. His face twitched with a promising laugh, and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He looked to his left to see Sherlock sound asleep. He pulled the covers away and reached for a crutch. He headed to the bathroom and locked the door, and then sat down. He let out another giggle, and before he could fully stop himself, he started to laugh. John managed to keep it soft and quiet, but as the seconds ticked by, the laugh became pained and suddenly there were tears falling down his face.

John touched his cheek, surprised, and idly wiped them away. His odd episode came to a depressing halt, and his lip trembled with overcoming emotion. He bit his tongue as the tears fell down his face, silent and unwelcome. John felt an unrelenting blame in his mind; he couldn’t stop blaming Sherlock in his dreams; he was terrified it would slip into reality and he would use it against Sherlock. That, John knew, would break him.

_I have to get through this_ , he told himself fiercely. _Stop blaming Sherlock. It’s illogical—_

But John also knew the psychological associations the human body can have. When a dog attacks someone at a young age, it’s logical to fear dogs after that. But John didn’t fear Sherlock…just his touch. It sent shivers down his spine and pain through his leg. He would recognize the touch for only a second and then be filled with memories of pain and would only feel that in an intensified way. He couldn’t feel the love anymore—the affection, the caresses, the musical hands, the scientific analysis when observing…he couldn’t feel Sherlock anymore!

John’s chest tightened and he let out a shaky heave. More tears fell down his cheeks, streaking through the sweat. He continued to cry as he promised himself, that not matter what kind of dreams he were to have, Sherlock wouldn’t find out, and he wouldn’t share his unconscious blame. _It wouldn’t come to that,_ John told himself. _It wouldn’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are amazing and they are very encouraging! ^.^


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have changed a bit.
> 
> WARNING: Suicidal Themes
> 
> if there is a continuity error or any error of some kind, please let me know. :)

**CHAPTER 3**

It had been three weeks since the accident, and two weeks since John had left the hospital, and things were moving at a slow pace. John stiffly got out of bed and started to stand. After a second of forgetfulness, he reached for one of the crutches and limped to the bathroom. Sherlock was already there, as if by silent agreement, although John was just too tired to protest. He let Sherlock help him into the shower, and he stayed in the bathroom as John washed himself. He never joined him, and John never asked.

Breakfast was silent, and afterwards John headed over to his chair without bothering to change from his pajamas. They were clean at least. His jeans were a pain to put on, as they didn’t quite fit right anymore, and the fabric was bothersome. Once John was used to changing clothes (the thought alone though sent a discomforting feeling in the back of his mind), he would be back to his old routine (he hoped at least).

John let out a sigh and turned on the television. He listened to it for the rest of the morning, and then he finally noticed Sherlock sitting in front of him, in his own chair, staring at him.

John cleared his throat. “What?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Are you going to change?”

John shrugged back and looked back at the TV. “Didn’t see the point.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered. “Alex will be here shortly. Are you going to do the stretches in those?”

John narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “I might change into some shorts.”

Sherlock mouthed, “Oh,” and looked away. John continued to stare at him, and noticed he was still in his dressing gown and pajamas, and clearly hadn’t showered in a few days.

“You can shower,” John said.

Sherlock’s head turned to him abruptly. “No, I can—,”

“You don’t have to babysit me,” John insisted.

“I can wait until Alex is here,” Sherlock pointed out.

John gritted his teeth and pointed to the shower. “Just go and shower, now,” he said firmly.

Sherlock scoffed lightly. “I don’t need to—”

“Sherlock—”

“Alex will be here soon. I can wait—”

“Sherlock—!”

There was a loud knock on the door, and then Mrs. Hudson’s voice. John rolled his eyes and looked away, ignoring Sherlock’s smug look. Alex appeared in the doorway with some equipment, and greeted the two.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Sherlock said as he stood up and headed to the shower. His smug grin fell as he looked at John, who only glanced at him before looking away with annoyance. After the bathroom door closed, John stood up and greeted Alex, and then excused himself to change.

He headed to their room and changed as quickly as he could into a pair of old shorts, and then headed back to the sitting room, noticing Sherlock hadn’t turned on the shower yet.

*            *            *

That night, John leaned against the counter and started washing the dishes. Sherlock was in the sitting room talking with Lestrade who had called, and then he was back in the kitchen as quickly as he had left. John told himself not to point that out.

Sherlock went up to John and grazed his lower back. “I’ll do that. Go and sit—.”

“You cooked,” John pointed out. “I can wash the dishes.”

“John—.”

“I’m perfectly capable, Sherlock. Besides, Alex said I should start practicing keeping my balance without an aid or a prosthetic.”

“You’ll have the prosthetic, though.”

“Not on all the time. Especially when I first start to get used to it.” John left it at that, and didn’t even bother mentioning the fact that he wasn’t completely sure he wanted one. Many people who have lost a limb opt for a wheel chair, for many reasons too. Even though John was eligible for a prosthetic, he wasn’t sure he wanted to bother with learning how to live with it.

“You haven’t been out of the hospital for a month yet. Take it easy,” Sherlock said.

John looked at him, annoyed. “I know what I can handle.”

Sherlock sighed. “Yesterday you tried reaching the top shelf for some flour, which you didn’t even want, Mrs. Hudson did. The day before you tried showering without the chair. Both times you nearly fell, and would have hit your head on the table or counter if I hadn’t caught you both times.” Sherlock finished with a slight waver in his tone. He stared at John, who was staring back him with a forming glare.

“That’s because you won’t stop hovering—you know, what, fine, _fine_ ,” John snapped. He shoved the towel into Sherlock’s hands and then reached for his crutches. “Always your way,” he muttered. He turned to put the crutches under his arms, but his balance wavered and he leaned dangerously to the side. Sherlock’s hands were around his waist instantly. John flinched out of his grasp and shifted a few steps as he stabilized the crutches. He glared at Sherlock and then headed to the bedroom.

Sherlock came to bed less than half an hour later. John had his back to the door and was looking intently at the wall. As Sherlock climbed in on his side, John turned around and faced the door, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock sighed and pulled the covers over himself.

“You’re annoyed with me,” Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed. “I’m tried,” he said. He didn’t want to fight, and even though he was annoyed, he really was tired.

“You might feel better if you showered,” Sherlock suggested.

John scoffed. “I don’t feel like it.”

“You stink,” Sherlock said bluntly.

John gaped and turned out to face him. “You stink. You didn’t shower like you so conceitedly said you would.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered and his shoulders slumped. John scoffed and repositioned himself, facing away from Sherlock.

“You don’t need to do that,” John muttered. “Alex is perfectly capable of watching me. You can leave the flat if you want, take a case or something.”

“There haven’t been any—,” Sherlock started to protest.

John huffed and turned back to face him. “You know there has! Lestrade called today, and I know he’s called before. Just take a case, I can take care of myself.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “You have yet to prove that to me.”

John flinched. “Excuse me? You should trust me—”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?!”

“Because—,” Sherlock cut himself off and then lied back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. He sighed, and started to turn away from John, attempting to avoid the question. John reached for his shoulder and held him in place.

“Tell me,” John said firmly but quieting his voice.

Sherlock avoided his intense gaze. “If something happened, I wouldn’t forgive myself. I _still_ can’t forgive myself…”

_Oh my god._

John stared at him and softened his face. He hadn’t given Sherlock’s guilt much thought in a while. He still had been having nightmares, and knew Sherlock didn’t know the context of, but Sherlock had never said anything about them yet.

“You never said anything…” John muttered.

Sherlock scoffed. “I know you have nightmares.”

John tensed beside him.

“I don’t know exactly what about, but you turn away from me every time,” Sherlock said.

John looked at him and tried to meet his eyes but Sherlock still wouldn’t let him. “They’re not about you—.”

Sherlock scoffed.

“They’re about the accident. My leg mostly. And how it’s there one minute and then gone the next. You’re not in it,” John said, hoping he sounded convincing. “I don’t really remember them all.” That was the truth—most of the time—so he knew he sounded honest, at least partly.

Sherlock sighed, and John couldn’t tell if he believed him or not.

John sighed, and even though he was tired, he thought of a way to convince Sherlock, at least tonight, that he didn’t blame him, no matter what his dreams were about. Alex had done this to his leg already, but there might be a way for Sherlock to do it.

“Here,” John said and sat up. He removed his pajamas and pushed the blankets away. Sherlock slowly sat at up and looked at him with a quizzical look. John took Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his right knee. Sherlock tensed beside him and didn’t move his hand. John’s heart was pounding with arising panic in his chest but he tried to ignore it and focused on Sherlock’s face.

“Massage it,” John said.

Sherlock looked at him with a furrowed brow. He slowly started to move his hand, but John shook his head, and slowly started to grin.

“Higher,” he said quietly.

Sherlock did so, and looked at John, his face still unsure. John met his eyes and grinned more.

“Higher.”

Sherlock stared at him, and then it slowly dawned on him. He moved his hand higher until it rested just below John’s hip, and he slowly started to caress the area, moving a little closer to John’s groin. John started to feel a mix of arousal and panic, so he quickly leaned in and captured Sherlock’s lips in a desperate kiss. Sherlock kissed him back and started to slow the pace down as he lowered his hand over John’s hardening cock. He palmed the area and moved his hand; John’s eyes fluttered closed and he moaned against Sherlock’s lips.

“John…” Sherlock murmured. He broke the kiss and looked at John through slit eyes. John met his gaze, and then welcomed Sherlock without protest as his lover recaptured his lips in a desperate kiss and deepened it with his tongue instantly. He leaned forward and lay on top of John, his hand still palming his cock and cupping the back of John’s neck. John arched against him and kissed back just as eagerly, running his hands along Sherlock’s side and hips. He felt a little unease, but ignored it.

Sherlock moaned against his lips and then pressed gentle kisses down his jaw, down his neck, and then down his chest over his clothed torso. He pushed the shirt up and started kissing quicker down his abdomen, all the while stroking John’s cock over his pants and simultaneously starting to rub himself against the sheet. John squirmed underneath, feeling conflicting emotions but nonetheless still aroused. He ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and then let out a gasp as Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s pants, pulling out his hard cock.

John was mesmerized by the attention, when Sherlock trailed his hand down John’s leg to hold him still. He had done it many times, every time actually, whenever he went down on John. But he hadn’t done so in the past month. John stilled slightly, allowing Sherlock to move his legs accordingly, but then his hand cupped the back of John’s right knee.

His stomach turned, and in a flurry of motion, he leapt out of bed and ran into the bathroom, stumbling and nearly falling over as he hopped as fast as he could. John barely made it to the toilet before he heaved, and after a few spouts, he coughed sickly. His cheeks burned with embarrassment and guilt, and all evidence of his arousal was gone. As he cleaned himself off, he didn’t know whether or not he was glad that Sherlock hadn’t followed him. Lifting his chin up with acceptance, he stood up and leaned against the wall as he hopped his way back into their room. It wasn’t ideal, but he made it without falling.

Along the way, John had lowered his gaze with another wave of guilt, and now started to slowly look up. Sherlock was in the same spot but his back was turned and his head was tilted up. John swallowed nervously and hopped into the room. He quickly sat on the bed behind Sherlock, giving him plenty of space but close enough to reach him.

Sherlock sniffled stiffly; John felt a stab of guilty and reached over. He grazed Sherlock’s shoulder, and was relieved he didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry…” John began lamely. “I don’t know—.”

Sherlock breathed in heavily, and it sounded groggy and almost like he breathed through his mouth rather than his nose. John scooted closer, keeping his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Please talk to me,” John said.

Sherlock shifted and lowered his head slightly. “Tissue…”

John cringed and reached for one, and then handed it over. Sherlock took it and wiped his face, but he continued to look away.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John tried. Sherlock continued to breath shakily. John was becoming more upset that Sherlock was crying. He placed his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder and pulled him so he would turn. Sherlock didn’t even bother resisting.

Instead of seeing tears, John saw Sherlock’s eyes were clear of them, but his nose was red and covered in blood, which had been spread around his mouth and jaw. John gasped and leaned away. Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and reached forward, but John moved out of reach.

“Oh my god,” John gasped. He raised his hands to his head and clutched at his hair, and squeezed his eyes for moment and muttered, scolding himself.

“It was an accident, John. It’s okay,” Sherlock said calmly, but slurred.

John narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “No, it’s not!”

Sherlock flinched slightly by his outburst, but he still remained in his spot and attempted to reach for John. John scooted away, and contemplated whether to leave the room. He could sleep on the couch—

“You’re not leaving,” Sherlock said firmly. “It was an accident.”

John grimaced and moved back into his side of the bed. “You need to get it checked—it could be broken—” John started breathing unevenly. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he scooted closer.

“It’s not,” he said slowly. “I’d know if it were. Just…calm down, John.”

John’s chest tightened and his eyes prickled with tears. He tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t, and clutched at his shirt, panicking. Sherlock moved closer, but John made a panicked sound, so Sherlock stilled. He slowly moved back and stood up.

“I’ll clean myself up. Do you need me to stay?” he asked carefully.

John shook his head. “Go.” His shoulders slouched with defeat. “Go.”

Sherlock left without another word. Being alone seemed to help. John slowly took a deep breath, and held it in. His chest ached but he managed to hold it in. He exhaled slowly, and repeated. By the time Sherlock came back, John had gotten his breath back, and was lying down on his side, the blankets still tossed to the side. He glanced up and noticed Sherlock’s face was now only slightly pink, and his nose was lightly bruising. He looked away the second he started to feel sick to the stomach.

Sherlock climbed in and pulled the covers over their bodies. He refrained from cuddling behind John, and instead turned off the light. Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

“Are you feeling better?” Sherlock asked.

John inhaled shakily. “Besides the fact I punched my boyfriend in the face and nearly broke his nose, I’m brilliant.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. After a couple more minutes, John sighed and slowly turned to face Sherlock.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Sherlock responded.

“I don’t know what got—.”

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered. He moved closer and tentatively wrapped his arms around John’s back, staying away from his lower back and anywhere below. John tensed, but leaned into the embrace, and slowly wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

They were silent for a little longer.

“I’m trying on a prosthetic tomorrow,” John said.

Sherlock hummed in response.

“I don’t want you to come,” John said.

Sherlock leaned away just enough to look John in the eye. “Are you sure?”

John nodded. “I want you to take a case. A short one, an old one, I don’t care. Take the case while I’m at my appointment.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “John—.”

“Please,” John begged. “It’ll be familiar and something I can look forward to when you tell me…”

Sherlock relaxed and nodded. “Alright, John. I will.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock leaned forward and buried his face between John’s neck and shoulder. They hugged for several hours, falling asleep in each other’s arms. When John awoke the next morning, he was relived that neither of them had moved apart during the night.

*            *            *

John walked into the sitting room, fully dressed, to see Sherlock already with his cup of tea. John looked to the table beside his chair to see his own, and quietly smiled at Sherlock as a thank you.

“Your appointment’s in an hour,” Sherlock stated. John nodded in affirmation. Sherlock took a sip of his tea and then set the cup down.

“Do you still want to go by yourself?” he asked, avoiding John’s eyes.

John nodded as he sat down. “Yeah. Go ahead on the case now. Who knows, it might be a long one.” John offered a grin, but it was strained. Sherlock seemed to think for a moment, and then he stood up in a flash and put his coat on.

“Are you sure?” he asked again.

“Yes,” John said confidently. “I’ll take a cab. It’ll only be a few hours, and then I’ll meet you back here, if you’re done by then.”

Sherlock shuffled his feet. “Alright, then…”

John took a sip of tea and looked at him. He softened his face and tilted his head up, and then offered a small smile.

“Go solve the case,” he said lightly.

Sherlock smiled back, and then on second thought, he stepped forward and kissed John on the lips chastely, before walking backwards until he was out of the sitting room. John heard him slow down his pace as he left the flat.

John drank his tea and fell into a light doze, and then he had fifteen minutes before his appointment. He had hoped for a shower that morning, but it had slipped his mind until now, so he mentally noted to take one later, and then he left.

He took his time getting down the steps and onto the pavement. A cab pulled over within a decent interval since he raised his hand for one, and then he was off. John was a little late by the time he made it to the hospital, but he was quickly led to the physical therapy room, and now just had to wait.

He was wearing a pair of sweats, and underneath he had his exercising shorts on. He took them off and sat down on the chair, and waited. In front of him were a few different types of prosthetics, and the sight of them sent a shiver down John’s spine.

 _You can get through this_ , John told himself. _Just take one day at a time._

*            *            *

John hurried up the stairs as fast as he could, not knowing if Sherlock was in their flat yet or not. He hadn’t texted, and John hadn’t either. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was giving him space, or if he was busy. But right now, John didn’t care.

He went straight into the bedroom, locked the door, and sat down on the side, leaning the crutches beside his beside table and not bothering in picking them up when they slide sideways and fell to the floor. He sat upright and tense, and placed his hands in his lap as he processed that morning.

Despite being a doctor, it came as a surprise to John that he would have to see his prosthetist once a week, at least, and that he will go through many prosthetics because his stump will gradually change in size. John knew the process in amputations—he had assisted on too many to count in Afghanistan, but he never had to deal with the recovery process. The months to come, and then the years to come, would be something entirely different to get used to. And there was no going back, no short cuts, or alternatives. John had sat in the doctor’s office, preparing himself to put on the prosthetic and practice walking, but in fact he had just sat for another thirty minutes after the doctor came in, staring at his stump and a practice prosthetic in the doctor’s hand, as he contemplated what was going to happen.

It seemed trivial; of course his leg wouldn’t grow back and he would have to adapt and change his lifestyle. John _knew_ that. He just couldn’t accept it. He didn’t want the doctor visits, the pinching of the prosthetic, the falling down, and the _reminder_!

John clenched his jaw and decided right then to sleep. He was tired, and didn’t care if he had a nightmare. He just wanted to forget about the morning. As he fell asleep, he hoped Sherlock would be home soon, and would wake him up. He didn’t want to be alone when he woke up.

John slept well into the evening, and when he did wake up, he didn’t feel any better, and was in fact, alone. John felt worse—groggy, exhausted, and he wanted to go back to sleep. He briefly thought Sherlock would be home by the time his second nap was done. His first nap had been peaceful, so as he lay back down against the pillow, John hoped that maybe, with sleep, perchance he wouldn’t dream.

He should have known it was too good to be true.

_There were blades of all sorts hanging above him. He was cold, like ice, but he wasn’t shivering. He couldn’t hear anything, not even his breathing. He knew he was gasping, but he couldn’t make a vocal sound. John widened his eyes, but all he could see was a brick wall washed out by glaring lights from above. The blades hung above him on hooks, and beside him on the wall—_

You can’t nail into brick, _John idly thought. He knew the layout was silly—it was cliché, a joke, not real, he knew that, he knew, he—_

_Sherlock appeared from the shinning lights, stark white and nearly ghostly except for his beady eyes, which were nearly covered entirely by his pupils—black spheres lacking a sense of life in them._

_This wasn’t new to John. He had had these dreams before. They were always different, but always the same. Sherlock was about to take his leg again and John couldn’t let it happen this time. He wanted to wake up. He had to!_

_“I can’t do this, John,” Sherlock said._

_John hadn’t been expecting that. He tried to sit up, but he only remained flat on the cool steal bed. He looked up as Sherlock walked close enough until he was beside him, looking down. His eyes finally glistened, but darkly so and not nearly convincing. He_ looked _like he was acting._

_“I did this to you. I took a part away from you and now you’re here. Gone from me.”_

_John stared at him in complete confusion. He furrowed his brows, but had no idea if he even moved his face. Sherlock continued, and slowly pulled out a gun._

_John widened his eyes and tried to speak, but still he couldn’t form a sound, not even a gasp or a breath._

_Sherlock’s eyes unfocused and he squinted. “You’re dead…” he said, as if to himself. John’s heart pumped faster in his chest, and he finally managed a twitch, but it wasn’t enough to catch Sherlock’s attention._

_“I did this, I did this,” Sherlock muttered. “You died because you chose to, you left me because I ruined you, I destroyed you, I did this, I did this, I did this—”_

_John finally screamed, but Sherlock was already pulling out the gun and aiming it at his temple._

_“John—.”_

“SHERLOCK!”

John sat up and screamed again, incoherently, and then he gasped sharply. He was alone, the blinds were still opened, and it was pitch black outside. There was a quiet noise coming from the sitting room, so John reached for his crutches and quickly left the room. He tried to catch his breath, but he couldn’t seem to, not while investigating the noise and trying to delete the nightmare.

He entered the sitting room and turned on the light just as Sherlock entered from the stairs. His hair was disheveled, his face was pink, and he was also out of breath.

“Why haven’t you answered your phone?” Sherlock asked, worry etched on his face.

John inhaled slowly and took a step back. He inhaled again, and then looked down, trying to organize his thoughts.

“I was sleeping…” he explained.

Sherlock’s gaze softened, and then his eyes narrowed. He stared at John’s face; John shifted his balance, feeling uncomfortable under Sherlock’s gaze this time, and he had no idea what he looked like, but would bet it was obvious he had just had a nightmare—one of the worst ones too.

“How bad was it?” Sherlock asked gently.

John scrunched his face and looked away, his cheeks reddening. He started to tremble, and then Sherlock’s arms were around him and pulling him against his chest.

John squirmed and took a step back, balancing on his left foot. “I’m fine…” he lied.

Sherlock obviously didn’t believe him. “Please, talk to me, John,” he said quietly.

John took another step away and leaned heavily against the crutches. He looked up at Sherlock and softened his face. “I’m going back to bed,” he murmured as he already started to leave.

“Have you eaten?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Have you showered? I can help—,”

“I’m fine,” John said, quietly and with defeat. He entered their bedroom and closed the door shut, hoping to indicate he didn’t want to be bothered. But as John lay on the bed, he couldn’t help but wonder if he really did want Sherlock next to him. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

*            *            *

John tossed and turned during the night. He didn’t have nightmares, but he didn’t have any good dreams either. Memories flashed through his mind, sending shivers through his body without ever really leaving.

And then suddenly he was awake. The memory dissipated before he could fully remember it, and he sat up gasping. John pulled the covers off his sweaty body and clutched his right knee. He fumbled forward, searching blindly in the dark, but realization hit him like a wave of ice-cold water—it hit him hard—and he inhaled sharply and held it in for several seconds.

His residual limb was in so much pain, John had thought at first something was biting him—stinging too—burning—and—

John let out a choked gasp and urged himself to focus on something else. Sherlock was sleeping beside him, yet he was stirring and seemed to be waking up.

“…John?”

“I’m okay,” John managed to say in a hoarse whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock shifted and turned towards him. His eyes were still closed and he was reaching out to John. John tried to focus on Sherlock’s sleeping movements, but then Sherlock trailed his hand down John’s abdomen to his hipbone, then to his right thigh. John squirmed underneath him as panic constricted his chest.

“Sherlock!” John snapped, the phantom pain nearly forgotten about. He tried to squirm away, but Sherlock continued to get closer to him. His eyes were still closed, and John realized he wasn’t actually awake.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice trailed off as it became harder to breathe. The pain in his leg increased and Sherlock only cuddled closer to him, and he was nearly lying on top of him, holding him still, and muttering incoherently. John’s heartbeat quickened and he couldn’t breathe deep enough. He could only feel panic and grasp Sherlock’s muttering, noticing the panic in his lover’s voice. Sherlock tried to pin his arms down, causing John to start hyperventilating. Memories flashed in front of him again: him, lying on his back, mostly darkness surrounding him with bits of light overhead in between the rubble; Sherlock looking down at him with fear, Sherlock reaching for a towel and placing it over John’s face, Sherlock’s hands holding his leg still, pain overwhelming John, and then sending him into complete and endless darkness…

John screamed in the present and pushed Sherlock off of him. Sherlock’s eyes flew open and remained unfocused for as long as John was conscious, and then he passed out into welcomed abyss, the pain vanishing along with him.

*            *            *

John slowly opened his eyes, feeling tired, painless, but sore. He carefully sat up, and going by the orange light streaming through the window, it was either early morning or early evening. John had no idea.

The door opened and Sherlock walked in, dressed in his pajamas still, and a dressing gown. He was holding a cup of tea, freshly brewed going by the rising steam.

They stared at each other silently, and then Sherlock walked in closer and kept the door opened.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

John thought for a moment, and then shook his head.

Sherlock hovered by the door in silence, and then set down the cup of tea on the bedside table.

“Thanks,” John said quickly, nodding to the tea.

“You fainted,” Sherlock blurted out. John looked at him and sighed quietly. He didn’t respond, and waited for Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock shuffled his feet and flickered his eyes briefly. Several seconds passed, and then a minute, when John realized Sherlock wasn’t going to go on.

“You were dreaming,” John pointed out.

Sherlock nodded and looked at the ground.

“Do you want to talk about it?” John asked.

Sherlock had had nightmares before, mostly consisting of his time away for two years. It wasn’t until after the debacle with Mary when he finally talked about it. John had listened and been there for him; he didn’t see why he could do it now.

But Sherlock’s eyes flickered again and then hardened into a glare.

“No, it’s fine. I can manage.”

John gaped at him. “Are you sure—?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped.

John flinched, and slouched his shoulders. Sherlock softened his expression and bowed his head.

“I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean to snap. And, I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

John started to protest. “You didn’t hurt me—”

“I pinned you down in my sleep, and you panicked. _You_ don’t have to tell me about your dreams though,” Sherlock added with a slight put out tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean—”

“I’m trying to help, John! But you don’t talk to me. You have nightmares nearly every night, and you won’t let me help.”

“I don’t need it—”

“But I do! I need you to talk to me. I need to know so I can make it better.”

“Then you tell me what you dreamt of. What about your case earlier, you haven’t told me—”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “That can wait.”

“It’s a case,” John pointed out. “Was it a good one? It matters to you, it matters to me.” He scooted closer on the bed and looked up at Sherlock. “Please. Tell me.”

“You first—”

“What—”

“Tell me what you dream and I’ll tell you—”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“It’s fair—”

“It’s not.”

“Yes—”

“Ok, it is. But I don’t _want_ to tell you,” John said.

“Fine, then. Drink your tea.” Sherlock turned on his heal in a flash, and left.

Anger blossomed in John. He reached for the teacup and tossed it hard against the door. It shattered and spilled over the carpet.

John stared at the mess, basking in the feeling of simply not caring. He flipped over onto his side and faced the wall, his back to the open door.

Sherlock didn’t come back.

*            *            *

John stayed in bed for the rest of the day, and slept a few hours periodically. He didn’t eat, and wasn’t even hungry. Sherlock didn’t come in, and as midnight came and passed, he still hadn’t come back. John had no idea if he was even home.

He awoke again to his phone ringing. He looked at the number and pressed the ignore button when he saw that it was Alex. He looked through other missed calls, two from his prosthetist and another from Alex. There weren’t any from Sherlock.

John couldn’t seem to care. He went back to sleep easily.

He woke up to darkness. His back and head ached, and his stomach churned with hunger. John sighed and stiffly sat up. He wasn’t up for cooking or preparing anything, but tea sounded good for now. He reached for his crutches and stiffly walked out of the room. The broken cup hadn’t been cleaned up yet. John half-heartedly realized he didn’t know what day it was.

He entered the sitting room and came to a halt. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. His coat was missing from the coat hanger.

John felt his heart sink and he sagged his shoulders. He loosened his grip on the crutches and balanced in a relaxed stance, and stood still. He swallowed tightly and frowned as he looked around the room again.

There was a sound of footsteps behind him. He turned around and saw Sherlock entering the flat. Sherlock hovered by the door, dressed in his coat and a suit.

“Case?” John asked hoarsely.

Sherlock nodded.

“How was it?”

“A six.”

John huffed. “Good enough to leave…”

Sherlock tilted his head.

John’s voice shook. “You left…”

“You threw a cup of tea at me.”

John scoffed and his eyes stung. “You did this and then you just leave,” he said in a disbelieving tone. The moment the words left his mouth however, he regretted it and looked at Sherlock in shock.

Sherlock stared at him, his jaw clenching. “Don’t use that against me,” he said gravely as he took a step forward.

John took a step forward too, hardening his gaze to keep his eyes dry. “You can’t just leave—”

“I just did.”

“You want me by myself? You don’t worry anymore?” John mocked.

“Don’t depend on me, John. I won’t be here forever.”

John laughed humorlessly. “You won’t, will you? You always leave. And you know what, I won’t be here forever either.”

The way he said those words seemed to imply something John didn’t mean, but Sherlock’s face fell for a second before he carefully masked it.

“You need to try, John. Don’t count on me; I can’t handle it. The guilt is eating me alive—” Sherlock’s voice shook, but his eyes remained hard. “And for God’s sake, shower! It’s been three days!”

“You try loosing a limb and see how easy it is to get up in the morning—”

“I’ve already seen it,” Sherlock said regretfully. He looked down John’s body, and scrunched his face. “Go and shower. I’m done—”

“No.” John blocked his way and stared him down. “You can’t just come back and refuse to talk to me.”

“I’m not refusing, you are—”

“Am not—”

“Then shower—”

“No”

“Fine—.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him towards the bathroom. John gasped and tried to squirm, but Sherlock was nearly dragging him, and John’s foot barely grazed the ground while his crutches fell to the floor. He couldn’t run off now.

John slowly started to panic, but he was angrier then ever.

“Let me go!”

No!”

“Sherlock!”

“Stop squirming and wash yourself.” Sherlock pushed him until he was sitting on the edge of the tub. Sherlock reached for the shower and turned it on; John took his chance.

He lunged forward and started to hop out of the bathroom, but then Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and lifted him off the ground. John yelled, but then he was shoved under the cold spray, fully clothed. Sherlock held him up and started undressing him.

John pushed his hands away and yelled, “Stop it! Let me go!”

“I can’t,” Sherlock bellowed.

John tried to push him away but was starting to slide down, so if Sherlock left he would fall, but he really didn’t want Sherlock here right now. His stump started to ache, and then John cracked.

“This is all your fault!” John snapped as he tried to squirm. “Why are you doing this to me?” His voice shook and he squeezed his eyes shut as tears prickled.

“Don't you think I know that? I know, John. I know! I'm going through this too and I need you to see that!”

“Get off of me! Please—” John’s voice trembled, and he tried to move away, but he was aware of the wet floor and really didn’t want to slip.

Sherlock held his wrists tightly and pushed John against the shower wall, holding him upright. “I can't! I can't let you go, I can't leave—I _won't_ leave, don't you see? I'm right here in this with you! There's no where else to go!”

Sherlock’s movements came to a halt and he slide down onto his knees. He held John by the hips and breathed heavily as he bowed his head and rested it against John’s abdomen.

John shivered, and then slowly trailed his hands down and held Sherlock by the shoulders. It took John only a moment to fully realize Sherlock was crying.

John’s heart clenched and his anger vanished. _At least for now_ , he hoped. He relaxed his grip and started to stroke Sherlock’s neck and hair. Sherlock shuddered against him and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him closer.

John trembled slightly and his foot ached. He was balancing for both of them, since Sherlock was lower than he was and barely holding him completely upright. Since the moment was heartfelt, he didn’t want to ruin it. So John reached for the nozzle and turned it to warm up the water.

But then his leg trembled severely and while leaning sideways to the right, his leg buckled and he slipped. As Sherlock tried to stop him from falling, John hit his head against the facet and blacked out before he could fully register Sherlock’s panicked cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment please!! They are always encouraging to update sooner :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking longer than I thought. I wanted to be sure before I posted this, and real life got in the way. I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Updates should be back to once a week, or less.
> 
> Comment please :)

John sluggishly opened his eyes only to see Sherlock staring down at him and water dripping profusely over his face. He blinked a few times and then caught a few words coming from Sherlock.

“…John? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

John exhaled. His head hurt and something felt tacky on his forehead. He furrowed his brows, but that only made it worse. He must have shown in on his face because Sherlock bit his lip and looked even more concerned than he had a second ago, however possible.

“Help me up?” John managed to ask.

Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around John’s back and helped him sit up. The shower was spraying directly on his neck, and it was still warm.

“How long…” John asked.

“Not quite a minute,” Sherlock said, his voice wavering slightly. “You seemed more stunned than completely blacked out.” John narrowed his eyes as an attempt to subside the pain, and looked up at him.

“I’m sorry—,” he started.

“Don’t,” Sherlock insisted. “It was my fault. Seems all I do is get you hurt.” He laughed weakly, but it didn’t lighten the mood at all. John clenched his jaw and lowered his head.

“I’m sorry for not being myself,” John said quietly.

Sherlock bit his lip and bowed his head. “I don’t blame you.”

John sniffled and shivered. “I don’t blame you,” he countered.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Do you want to shower alone?”

John shook his head. “Just…turn off the water and get me some clothes.”

“But, John—,”

“Please?”

Sherlock sighed. “Alright.”

Sherlock turned off the shower and left the bathroom. He returned quickly to see John sitting on the edge and already attempting to undress.

“Do you need—,”

“I’ve got it,” John assured. He dressed silently, and then looked around for a moment.

“Can you get my crutches?” he asked.

Sherlock started to turn around, but then he paused. “I can help you.”

John shook his head. “I don’t want you to.”

Sherlock swallowed tightly, and then left. He returned with the crutches and handed them to John. John stood up stiffly and then left the bathroom without another word. He climbed into bed, and turned onto his side, his back facing the door.

John heard Sherlock walk into their bedroom and pause by the doorway. John waited for him to either leave or go around to his side of the bed, but neither happened. Instead, Sherlock exhaled shakily, and when he spoke, his voice was tight and he was clearly have trouble keeping it from being harsh.

“You promised,” Sherlock said.

John cringed at the reminder. He didn’t really want to talk; his head hurt like hell and he just wanted to sleep. But John knew there wouldn’t be a moment like now, to say the things that needed to be discussed. Might as well get it over with.

He sat up and turned until he was on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging off the edge. He looked at Sherlock. “I’m keeping it, Sherlock,” he said carefully. “I’m trying very hard to keep it.”

“So you admit it?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow and hardened his facial expression. “You resent me deep down and you’re trying to—.”

“I don’t resent you!” John snapped.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and straightened up. “Of course you do. It wouldn’t make any sense if you didn’t. Just accept it already so we can—.”

“It’s not true though,” John interrupted.

“Then why are we fighting?” Sherlock bellowed as he threw his arms in the air. “Prove it to me! Show me!”

John lunged at Sherlock and pushed him hard against the door. He kissed him hard on the lips, and clutched at Sherlock’s side for balance. He swayed and his head throbbed, but he could feel Sherlock and that was preferable at the moment. Sherlock took a moment to collect himself, and then he was kissing John back just as forcefully, holding John upright by the hips and leaning back against the wall for support.

John gasped against Sherlock’s lips as he was overcome by panic. The phantom pain returned and his left leg started to buckle underneath him. He broke apart from him and took a step back, reached for the bedside table to keep his balanced, and lowered his gaze. His brow furrowed in pain, and his stomach churned with nausea. His chest tightened with rising panic, and it was slowly starting to become difficult to breathe.

Sherlock inhaled slowly and lowered his hands. “You see…” his voice shook and he sounded resigned. “Deep down, you associate me with…” Sherlock trailed off and exhaled shakily. John kept his face lowered, the panic still rising and bile stinging his throat. His eyes prickled; he raised a hand to lie over Sherlock’s arm, but Sherlock flinched and took a step back.

“I’ll just…”

“Please don’t…” John begged, all the while still keeping his head down. His eyes blurred and a few tears threatened to spill out soon.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Sherlock said. He turned, paused, and then squeezed John’s shoulder gently before leaving the room. John stumbled backwards until he hit the bed and he sat down with a heavy sigh.

Tears slowly fell down his cheeks, and he quickly wiped them away. He didn’t cry loudly, or sob, or even whimper. John let the tears fall quietly, and then he lay down on his side. His back shook as he cried a little more, and he fell asleep with his cheeks wet and unknowingly with Sherlock sitting in the hall with his back to the door.

*            *            *

John woke up alone, and then went back to sleep. He had nightmares—gruesome ones—but when he woke up, it was to someone else’s screaming. By the time he was aware however, the noise was gone, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was real.

John woke up again well into the morning, and took his time getting up. He walked into the bathroom, only to catch a glance of Sherlock entering the kitchen. He decided not to follow him.

John showered thoroughly and slowly, taking his time and making sure he didn’t fall. He didn’t want his next encounter with his lover to be because he had fallen again. He carefully dried himself off and dressed, and then entered the kitchen hesitantly.

Sherlock was at the table, looking at one of his experiments. His back was tensed, and his eyes were too intently focused that John knew he was entirely aware of John’s presence, and not at all on whatever was on the slide. John hovered by the entrance, and then headed to the counter.

“I have an appointment,” John said. “With my prosthetist. I’ll get casted for one, and then I’ll have to wait until it’s ready to try on.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied flatly without moving his head.

“And, I have one with Alex after,” John informed, he too not turning around to face his lover.

“I have a case,” Sherlock said.

John then turned around, holding his balance on the counter behind him. “Another one? Do you want me to come along?”

“No, it’ll be boring,” Sherlock said dismissively.

John furrowed his eyebrows. “But enough for you?”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied. He stood up swiftly and headed into the sitting room, reaching for his coat. “I should be back by dinner. Don’t wait up.” He started to head to the door, when John stopped him.

“Wait!”

Sherlock stopped, but didn’t turn around.

John followed him and paused in between the sitting room and kitchen. “Don’t you want me to come along?”

“No,” Sherlock said without meeting his eyes.

John scoffed. “Tell that to my face, and then I’ll believe you.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly, and then he turned his head, and met John’s eyes with a neutral expression.

“I don’t want you to come with me,” he said flatly.

John flinched and took a step back. That hurt, unexpectedly. “A-are you…” John stuttered.

“I…” Sherlock’s voice faltered, and he took a step back. He shifted his head but then paused, as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to look at John or not. He sighed, aggravated, and focused intently on the coats by the door.

“I don’t want to argue,” he said.

John took a step forward. “Me neither.”

“I want things back to normal,” Sherlock muttered.

John swallowed tightly. “That can’t—.”

“I know it can’t happen!” Sherlock snapped. He stilled, collected himself, and then flickered his gaze at John for a second before looking away. “I want to know…” he whispered.

“Know what?” John pried carefully.

Sherlock sighed and took another step back inside the sitting room. He turned to face John, but he kept his eyes on anything around him except for John’s face.

“What do you dream about? I want to know every detail…” Sherlock paused, and then finally looked at John, his eyes glistening. “I want to know what you see at night, why you flinch every time I touch you and why _I_ flinch every time I’m near you.”

John furrowed his eyebrows, and allowed Sherlock to continue.

“I want to know if we can get through this,” Sherlock said, his voice shaky. He swallowed tightly and looked up, looking away from John’s gentle gaze. “Can we?”

John sighed shakily and took a careful step forward, balancing on the crutches tiredly. “We can,” he said confidently. “We can get through this. This doesn’t have to be the worse thing…”

Sherlock scoffed weakly. “I hope it is.”

John smiled sadly and nodded. “It can be, then… if it is, and we get through it, we can get through anything else.”

Sherlock exhaled roughly and cleared his throat. He blinked a few times and flickered his gaze to John. “I need you to understand that I did this—,”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock took a step back and raised his chin. “I need you to understand that. If you hadn’t followed me into that building, or pushed me out of the way, you wouldn’t be like this—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted sternly. “I followed you because I wanted to. We are a team. We don’t do things alone. And for God’s sake, I love you. Why wouldn’t I follow you?”

Sherlock exhaled shakily and weakly smiled. “You haven’t said that in a while…”

“Well, I’m saying it now. And, I’m sorry. For not saying it, and for not being myself.” John looked away for a moment, organizing his thoughts. “Let’s take it one day at a time, and not run the second something becomes too difficult. Let’s try, ok?”

Sherlock nodded and then immediately wrapped his arms around John’s back. John stumbled backwards slightly, so he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

 “Come to bed tonight?” John asked against his collar.

Sherlock looked at him oddly, and then nodded. He tightened his hold, and the two remained like that for several minutes.

Sherlock loosened his hold and looked at John hesitantly. “Do you want to come along?”

John smiled softly and shrugged. “I have my appointments. But I’ll meet you at home, all right? I want you to tell me all about it.”

Sherlock relaxed and nodded. “I will.” He leaned forward and kissed John chastely before straightening up and heading to the door.

He paused and turned around. “Next time, will you come?”

John smiled. “Of course.”

Sherlock smiled, and then left.

*            *            *

That evening, John walked to his side of the bed, setting the crutches against the bedside table. Sherlock wasn’t home yet, and John hoped he would be soon; he really wanted to hear about the case, but he was exhausted from his appointments.

John had his residual limb casted, and now he would have to wait a week or two until his first prosthetic would be ready. But John wasn’t entirely convinced he wanted one. He got around efficiently with crutches, and could opt for a wheelchair if he felt like it. He had left his physical therapy early due to fatigue, but John was really just not up for anything anymore. It would be convenient, and make it easier to walk without having his arms occupied with the crutches. But John was still feeling unsure.

He lay down under the covers, and started to drift off, welcoming sleep without protest, when the door opened.

“What the—”

“I want to have sex,” Sherlock blurted out as he strolled in. John furrowed his eyebrows and gaped at him.

“Excuse me—”

“It’s been one month and three days since we’ve had sex—actually had it. Before your…accident.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Oh.”

Sherlock nodded and removed his coat and jacket, and then his shirt and trousers followed. He crawled onto the bed and over John, causing John to have to lie back down. Sherlock looked down at him, and grinned softly.

“Can we?”

John huffed and sat up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s lower back as his lover scooted down until he was sitting in John’s lap, straddling him. John kissed him briefly and then pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” John shrugged. “I just thought we would take it slow. Try at things and get used to everything slowly before jumping into…this.”

John looked up at Sherlock, who started to seem unsure. He looked into Sherlock’s grey eyes, and slowly started to relax. His breath caught in his throat as he realized they haven’t had _this_ in a long time. John slowly smiled affectionately, and stretched up to graze Sherlock’s lips with his own. “Alright, okay then. Let’s do it.”

Sherlock smiled softly and leaned the rest of the way to meet John’s lips. Sherlock kissed him and picked up the pace after a moment, and then he pushed forward until John was lying back down on his back. Sherlock lay on top of him and restarted the kiss, trailing from his lips to his jaw and neck.

John moaned underneath him, and wrapped his left leg around Sherlock’s lower back, pulling him closer. Sherlock trailed his hand down his thigh and held it in place, and then he shifted and reached for John’s other leg to put over his back. He trailed his hand down John’s right leg **,** only to be cut short by the end.

John flinched and pulled away, just as Sherlock was pulling away too, his eyes flickering with hurt.

“It’s just hard getting used to…” John mumbled, his arousal faltering. Awkwardly, he sat up and leaned against the headboard, and Sherlock sat back on his knees, increasing the space between them. His eyebrows started to furrow, but it looked like he was having trouble with what to feel, and what to show.

“Please say something,” John said after a minute.

Sherlock sighed and crawled to his side of the bed. “It’s fine, John—.”

John bristled. “No, it’s not.” He shifted on the bed until he was facing Sherlock and reached for his hand. Sherlock let him take it, but John could tell he wanted to pull away. “Tell me, what is it—.”

Sherlock looked at him, his expression completely conflicted. “Hasn’t it been long enough?”

John gaped at him. “Well, no. It can take years to get used to it. It’s not like a shattered arm or, or…a hip replacement. My leg is gone and it’s not going to be the same, even if I do get a prosthetic.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Of course you’ll be getting a prosthetic.”

John clenched his fists and glared at him. “That’s not for you to decide.”

Sherlock looked at him and softened his face slightly. “But John, it’s—”

“It’s my decision. Besides it’s not as if I can wear it in bed anyway—”

“I—I know that,” Sherlock snapped. “But why wouldn’t you want one? What about cases, and—.”

John scoffed. “So that’s the only reason I should get one? So I could follow you around. Is that all I am to you?” John _knew_ that wasn’t the case—but he couldn’t take it back now.

Sherlock stared at him, his face reddening with hurt or anger—John couldn’t tell, and didn’t know which he’d prefer. “Of course not! If it weren’t for cases in the first place—” Sherlock cut himself off and closed his mouth shut.

John narrowed his eyes at him. “You think…because of a case, I ended up like this. You don’t want me to come along anymore!?” John gasped.

Sherlock softened his face. “Of course I want you to join me, but you just—,”

“What?” John demanded.

“You always get hurt! Because of me, you’ll get hurt again!”

John gaped at him. “It’s my decision, Sherlock. I want to go with you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Sherlock snapped.

John scoffed and narrowed his eyes incredulously. “Then maybe I won’t. I won’t get a prosthetic; I won’t go with you on cases. I’ll just stay here, crippled and useless!”

With one last glare, John shifted to the edge of the bed and began to leave. Sherlock reached for him and grazed his hand on John’s shoulder. John flinched and hurried away, reaching for the crutches and heading towards the door.

“John, wait—” Sherlock hurried after him. “You don’t mean that—just, tell me what I can do to help—,” He caught up to John easily just outside their door, and took his elbow gently. John flinched and took a step back, but the crutched slipped out from under him and he fell forward, landing on his side. John let out an aggravated sigh, and very nearly growled.

“You don’t get to do anything because  _YOU_ DID THIS TO ME!” John yelled.

He blinked in shock at his own outburst, and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was staring at him, his face crestfallen for a split second before hardening, his lip stiffening and his fists clenching by his side.

John hardened his gaze. “You keep telling yourself that, so why do you look so surprised?” John let out a huff and looked up at Sherlock with a glare. “You keep saying it, so it must be true. You. Did this. To _me_ ,” John snapped.

They started at each other for several seconds, their chests heaving and their fists clenched. John had his arms behind his back holding him upright as he stared up at Sherlock, who only continued to tower over him in silence.

It wasn’t like what had happened in the shower. John had hoped that would be the last time, but despite what he wanted, his subconscious couldn’t let it all go. Sherlock cut off his leg. He had to adapt, and he had taken it well. But the nightmares—John shivered—he dreaded going to sleep, but looked forward to it as an escape from reality. At his appointments, everyone treated him carefully, and Sherlock was too. He coddled and watched; he took cases behind his back just so, what? So John wouldn’t be jealous? Of course John was jealous. He wanted to run after criminals, laugh until he was out of breath, and walk the streets of London _with_ Sherlock. He wanted to talk about the cases, have dinner in between cases, and nap together on the sofa, _with_ Sherlock. He wanted so much but this obstacle was holding him back, and he knew he was slipping further into the cracks. It was only a matter of time before he’d lose himself completely.

John shook his head to clear his thoughts and breathed slowly to calm himself down. After a couple of minutes, John sighed and reached for one of his crutches and slowly stood up. He reached for Sherlock, but the man flinched and took a step back, diverting his gaze to the floor.

“Sherlock—”

“It won’t go away. It won’t, no matter what you tell yourself,” Sherlock whispered, his voice shaking slightly. “The guilt…” He looked up at John. John’s heart clenched at the sight of Sherlock’s eyes, the grey abyss glistening with potential tears. Sherlock blinked once, and then they were gone. “The resentment.”

John sighed with defeat but still shook his head. “I don’t—”

“You do. But it’s late now and I think we should…I think I’ll go upstairs. This room will be easier for you.”

Without waiting for John to respond, Sherlock walked past him and disappeared down the hall. John listened until the door was closed, and then waited. After a long while, his balance became difficult to keep, so he stiffly walked back to their (was it his now?) bedroom. He didn’t fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments get quicker updates :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been more than two weeks! Real life got in the way! Updates should be back to a weekly schedule, if not sooner. Chapter 6 is pretty much written, it just needs to be edited.
> 
> Thank you everyone who commented! I really appreciated them and they made real life a little less sucky. Thank you!! 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter! :)

**CHAPTER 5**

It was early morning when John gave up on trying to sleep. He put on a pair of shorts and kept his nightshirt on. He entered the dim-lit kitchen and turned on the kettle. Sherlock wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and John hoped he hadn’t left yet.

During the night, he had told himself over and over that he didn’t blame Sherlock for what he had done. What he had said— _“You did this to me_ ”—tormented John during the night, he couldn’t imagine what it must have done to Sherlock.

John liked to think he’d do the same if it was Sherlock, and he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t blame him. But _John_ was a doctor! He knew the body could associate a certain touch to certain events, which would explain why John would flinch every time Sherlock’s hand trailed to his stump. He knew that; he had told himself before already, so why hadn’t anything changed?

The kettle hissed, bringing John out of his thoughts. He prepared his tea, and reached for a second cup, only to pause. Should he make Sherlock’s tea? Would it be like a peace offering?

Not wanting to debate about it, John prepared Sherlock’s tea and brought it over to the counter. He arranged the crutches so that both of them were now under his right arm. It wasn’t ideal, but it seemed to work.

A low sound suddenly echoed from upstairs. John walked to the doorway between the kitchen and the hallway, and listened closely. Several seconds ticked by when he heard movement.

_Sherlock is awake then…_

John picked up Sherlock’s cup of tea and walked to the foot of the stairs, keeping his weight as equal as possible on the crutches and remaining leg. It would take him some time to get up the stairs, but would it be appreciated?

_It was worth it_ , John thought. He needed to persuade Sherlock and knew he wouldn’t be able to do it downstairs. Sherlock would likely run off before he would see that his tea was ready.

Bracing himself heavily on his left leg, holding his tea in his left hand, and with the crutches on his right side, he lifted the crutches onto the step and hopped up. The teacup shook in his hand, but he managed to keep it steady. It was a slow process, but he was more than willing.

Eventually, John made it to the bedroom, and pushed the door open, noticing it was kept ajar. He walked in, about to speak up, when a low whine interrupted his thoughts. He looked toward the bed and noticed Sherlock was still under the covers, his eyes squeezed shut and his fists holding tightly to the duvet.

It took John a few seconds to realize Sherlock was having a nightmare. He walked forward until he was as close to the edge of the bed and spoke.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered and tightened his hold on the duvet. John looked around for a place to set the tea, but there wasn’t one—they had moved the bedside table to their bedroom months ago for more storage.

Sighing, John shifted his balance on his left foot. He moved the crutches to his left side, and placed them under his arm, and then he reached forward with his right hand and gently grazed Sherlock’s shoulder.

John had calmed Sherlock down from nightmares before, but this time it took him a few seconds to realize he made a mistake. Sherlock abruptly sat up on the bed and half-lunged half-growled at John, sending hot tea out of John’s hand and spilling over his arm and the blankets. John gasped and flinched away, stumbling. The crutches fell from under his arm as he stumbled backwards; he tried to catch them but missed. John tried to hop and regain his balance, but he didn’t do it in time and fell onto his right side, landing hard on his right wrist and one of the crutches that had fallen behind him.

There was a shuffle of movement behind him and the light was flicked on. John inhaled deeply, sharp pain spreading in his wrist and in his abdomen. The crutch was poking him, and he shifted off of it, grimacing in pain.

“John?” Sherlock sounded confused and slowly came to his side. His hand grazed John’s shoulder, and John flinched automatically. Sherlock took a step back and withdrew his hand.

John took a shaky breath, sniffled, and then slowly lifted himself up, holding the crutch in his left hand and cradling his injured wrist to his chest. He wobbled a few times, and then felt hands wrap around his waist, holding him upright. He leaned into the touch slightly, and silently allowed Sherlock to help him down the stairs.

It was several minutes later when John was back in the kitchen, and Sherlock was in his dressing gown and applying a temporary brace over John’s wrist.

“It’s not broken,” John mumbled.

Sherlock didn’t respond. He finished with the brace, and then stood up and went to the kettle. John watched his eyes flicker from the kettle to John’s cup of tea, and then Sherlock relaxed his shoulders.

"You only came upstairs to bring me tea," Sherlock said flatly. John swallowed tightly and nodded, but then remembered Sherlock wasn’t facing him.

“Yeah.”

“…Just to bring me tea…” Sherlock repeated.

John didn’t know what to say, so he repeated himself too. “Yeah.”

Sherlock remained still for several seconds, and John prepared to go, when Sherlock turned abruptly and stood in front of him, avoiding his gaze. John kept his chin up and looked at him, unsure what he was going to do.

Sherlock seemed to be debating something in his head, for he remained still for a few moments longer. John opened him mouth to speak, when Sherlock finally did.

“Let me…” he started, but trailed off. John didn’t like his voice; it was uncertain and questioning, not something Sherlock should sound like.

“Go ahead,” John offered, although he had no idea what Sherlock was going to do.

Sherlock glanced at him for split second and then looked down at John’s stump. Sherlock knelt down onto his knees and very slowly raised his hand to John’s stump. John fought hard not to flinch, but his thigh did, and he held his breath, afraid Sherlock was going to walk away. Sherlock swallowed tightly and held his hand in place for a few seconds before continuing. He placed his hand gently on the end, and held it there. John slowly relaxed, suddenly wanting to bask in the warmth of Sherlock’s touch, but was unsure how long this was going to last. It felt like forever since he felt a simple touch like this, although John remembered the attempt at a massage several days ago. But after so much tension, this tingled John’s senses in a different way—a good way.

Sherlock finally looked at him. John’s heart clenched at the sight of him; Sherlock’s eyes were soft and his lip was quivering—John could tell Sherlock wanted to say something, but he was just about to break. John leaned forward and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, feeling him let out a shaky breath against his cheek.

“It’ll be okay,” John whispered. Sherlock inhaled shakily and nodded against him, keeping his hand on his stump.

They stayed like that for several minutes, John’s tea going cold and the mess upstairs forgotten about.

“Sherlock?” John asked tentatively a little later.

Sherlock look up at him from where he was kneeling. John licked his lips and met his partner’s eyes slowly.

“You’ve had nightmares too,” John stated. He knew it was true; the morning’s incident was plain as day. John just wanted to hear it from Sherlock, and then they could actually start talking about the things that John had been avoiding.

Sherlock minutely flinched. He parted his mouth but nothing came out.

John shifted in the chair, and then stiffly stood up. He took Sherlock’s hand and then hopped forward to their chairs. Sherlock helped him balance, and then he took a seat. John continued to hold his hand so he could remain standing.

“I’ll tell you mine, if you still want to know,” John said. “But I need to know…do you have them about…” John tilted his head toward his residual limb, implying the obvious.

Sherlock looked up at him and then let out a slow exhale. “John…”

His voice sounded pained. John relaxed and leaned down. He kissed Sherlock’s lips chastely, and then leaned away just a little so that he could still graze Sherlock’s nose with his. He took a step forward and turned his body, and then sat in Sherlock’s lap, draping his legs to the side. He wrapped his right arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and held him close to his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John’s waist and rested the other in his lap, and intertwined their hands. John rested his cheek on top of Sherlock’s curls, and held him for several minutes in silence.

It was comforting for the both of them; it was reassuring and uplifting, on so many levels.

Swiftly, Sherlock pulled John closer and tightened his hold. He buried his face in the crease of John’s chest and arm.

“You’re always pinned,” Sherlock muttered tightly. “And I’m always late.”

John breathed in slowly while he processed this. He pressed his cheek against Sherlock’s forehead and squeezed their interlocked hands.

“You’re always looking down at me, either about to do it or, you have already done it,” John replied slowly. Sherlock tensed beside him, and almost made an attempt to stand, but John squeezed his hand again and rubbed his back with a couple of soothing motions. Sherlock shifted his head and rested his forehead in the crook of John’s neck. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, idly rubbing his thumb over the temporary brace on John’s wrist.

“You bleed out. Your heart stops, and I drown in your blood. Sometimes, you’re still alive but…you’re taunting me…” Sherlock inhaled sharply and tightened his arm around John.

John shakily exhaled. “Sometimes…you keep it. And you—,”

Abruptly, John found himself falling out of Sherlock’s lap and landing hard on the floor. Sherlock ran off into the kitchen, and then John heard him vomit into the sink. John cringed at himself and stiffly lifted himself into Sherlock’s chair. He took in deep breaths in order to calm himself down, and sort of managed to by the time Sherlock came back to the living room, stumbling slightly and looking peaky.

John looked at him calmly, an idea popping into his head. He wasn’t exactly clear of it, but looking at Sherlock now, bothered and guilt-stricken, this seemed to be the only solution, however temporary it may be.

“I have a suggestion…” John said hesitantly.

Sherlock looked at him oddly. He sniffled and cleared his throat, and then nodded for John to go on.

John licked his lips nervously and looked down for a moment. “I think we should take a break…”

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and nodded. He spoke, his tone gaining his momentum back slightly, although his voice was shaky. “Yes. That seems logically. I don’t want to hurt you anymore, and I don’t want to fight. We can focus on your recovery…and have other distractions…”

John cringed and shook his head sadly. “That’s not what I mean.”

Sherlock looked at him with a quizzical look. “What do you mean then?” he asked quietly.

John let out a shaky sigh and blinked a couple of times faster, hating that his eyes were already prickling.

“We should take a break from us.”

Sherlock stared at John. The room was silent for several seconds. John’s heart throbbed loudly in his ears, and he couldn’t move. Neither could Sherlock; he was staring at John, unblinking and unmoving, John briefly thought he wasn’t breathing.

But then Sherlock spun on his heel and stormed down the hallway, and then slammed the door. John swayed by the silent outburst, and then hoped forward. His crutches were still upstairs though, so he hopped down the hall as carefully as he could, holding onto passing furniture and the wall to keep his balance and catch his breath.

Tiredly, he paused in front of the door, and even having heard the door being locked, he turned it anyway. It didn’t budge.

“Sherlock?” John called through the wood. “Please, just respond, vocally.”

Nothing. But John could hear settle gasps and muttering, but it was too incoherent to analyze.

John knocked on the door loudly. “Just…hear me out. We’re still together, just not…intimately, or romantically. We have space, and we can either still sleep together or not, but I think we should. We just don’t initiate anything.”

John paused to collect his thoughts. This was getting harder than he thought, and although he didn’t want to, he couldn’t think of anything else. This should help them; it’ll give them time to think and process everything without having to worry about the other one. This was needed, and it was the only thing John could think of.

“Look, it’ll just be for a week or two. That might not be ideal, psychologically or scientifically or whatever, but think of it as an experiment—,”

“I’ll never use our relationship as an experiment, John,” Sherlock snapped on the other side.

John inhaled sharply, and then gave a stiff nod to the door. “Right, of course. I’m sorry. But just…think it through. We spend time apart, and absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Without intimacy, we’ll want it, and then we’ll forget about what’s keeping us apart now.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. John shifted his balance and waited. After several moments, he sighed and lowered his voice.

“Just think it through, or don’t. It matters to me though, and I want to be with you, so I think space will do that.”

“That doesn’t make any logical sense,” Sherlock muttered, his voice sounding angry.

John shrugged. “No, I guess not. Well, it’s love. It’s human emotion. Human error. It doesn’t make sense but it works. We spend some time apart, no caressing, kissing, sex, nothing. You can take some cases, and I can go along with you if you want, or I can stay here. Just, please Sherlock, will you give it a try?”

“I don’t see the point. We’re together. There must be another way.”

John bristled. “Well, then you come up with some idea, genius!” John bit his tongue and clenched his mouth shut. A second passed, and Sherlock remained silent.

John lunged forward and hit the door with his shoulder just as it was flung opened. He stumbled inside and fell into Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock clutched his arms and pushed him back upright; John took a moment to gain his balance, holding himself up by clutching the doorframe. He met Sherlock’s eyes, but when he did, the glare directed at him sent a shiver down his spine.

John swallowed tightly and raised his chin. He met Sherlock’s hardening stare with a near matching one, while his heart throbbed nervously in his chest.

“I refuse to give up on us,” Sherlock said sternly.

John narrowed his eyes. “It’s not giving up. I just need a break.”

“Why?”

“Because…it’s all too much,” John replied, quieter and with a hint of defeat. 

Sherlock was silent for moment. “Would the guilt ever go away?” he asked.

John let out a sigh. “It could. With acceptance and forgiveness, I think it can.”

“And, do you—”

“Of course, I do. I forgive you,” John interrupted, not questioning it one bit.

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes widening, presumably with surprise. John held his breath as he waited for a response.

“You do?”

John inhaled sharply and shifted his balance against the doorframe. He dropped his gaze for a moment and nodded.

“‘Course I do,” John repeated in disbelief.

He looked up slowly, his eyes starting to glisten. Sherlock’s eyes matched his, and the sight clenched at John’s heart.

“Then why—.” Sherlock’s voice shook. He pressed his lips tightly together and cocked an eyebrow up slightly, but still looked helpless and confused.

John let out a shaky breath. “Because… _I_ need a break…from this. I can’t keep arguing, I just can’t.”

Sherlock lowered his head in defeat. “I don’t want this,” he said. “But if you need space, then you have it.”

Sherlock walked passed John and headed up the stairs to the other room.

John watched him go, and didn’t call after him, or even follow him. He physically couldn’t, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t really. There wasn’t a point. He stiffly entered their bedroom and sat on the bed.

_Just a week_ , John told himself. _Just a little space._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! There's about three more chapters to come, so subscribe for updates!
> 
> Thank you everyone so far who has been commenting and following this fic. I love this work so dearly and it means a lot that people are enjoying it. Let the angst continue! 
> 
>  
> 
> WARNING: FAKE-major character death situation-FAKE but still here is a warning.

**CHAPTER 6**

One Week Later.

John woke with a start. The nightmare vanished instantly, and so he tiredly sat up and reached for his crutches. His wrist was still a little bit bruised, but he didn’t need the brace anymore. However, he still had bruising below his right pectoral. It was sore, but he was sure there wasn’t any internal damage. Sherlock didn’t know about it though, even after a week, and John wanted to keep it that way. It wasn’t a big deal, not with everything else at hand.

John did his morning routine alone, with Sherlock nowhere in sight. He wasn’t surprised; Sherlock hadn’t slept in their bed all week, and he was gone from the flat most of the time. After he was done, John went into the kitchen for tea. His prosthetic leg was ready today, so he was going to the hospital after he ate, but he hoped he’d see Sherlock before he left. He hadn’t told him yet, and John wanted Sherlock to go with him.

The two had barely spoken a word to each other, apart from “pass the milk”, or any other variation of that. Sometimes they had informed the other of their daily plan and where they were going, but it didn’t last. All John knew was that Sherlock had a case. Lestrade had called him two days after their “break” had started. John had asked Sherlock if he wanted him to tag along, but Sherlock had seemed reluctant, so John dropped it. He had his appointments anyway.

John arrived at his prosthetist in time, and waited patiently in the physical therapy room. Alex was supposed to come too, to help if needed.

The door opened after a short while, and the prosthetist walked in, holding a prosthetic—John’s prosthetic. He felt nervous as the man came closer, and sat in the chair in front of him.

“You know how to put it on?” he asked.

John absentmindedly nodded. Alex had showed him with the practice ones, but none of those were _made_ for him, so the fit was going to be different. He pulled up the right side of his jeans and rolled it upwards—he was sick of shorts and of the cold that came with it, and it was worth the hassle to roll the jeans up anyway. He put the silicone liner over his stump, and then a sock over that.

“You may have to use more than one, so your leg will fit better in the shell,” the prosthetist said.

John nodded, and then reached for the prosthetic. He slid his stump into the fiberglass shell carefully. He pressed firmly and then the pin clicked into the leg. That was all to it, which baffled John for a moment.

“This is just your temporary one,” the doctor said. “As you know, you’ll go through more than one before you get your definitive prosthetic.”

John just nodded, and slowly stood up as he grasped both sides of the walking aid.

“Now go slow. You’ve tried on different kinds to get a sense of style and type, but this is suppose to fit you the best.”

John swallowed tightly as he got used to the unknown feeling. “It pinches,” he murmured. He was starting to feel overwhelmed, and really wished Sherlock was here.

“Alright then, lets put another sock on. That may help.”

John sat down and pressed the button by the ankle to release the pin. He removed the leg and then put another sock over his stump, and then put the leg back on. He stood up slowly and balanced himself with the aids.

“Now, go ahead and walk around. See if it still pinches.”

John took a few slow steps, keeping the aid in front of him. It felt weird but also familiar, and it was relief to walk without the crutches under his arm. As he walked, he noticed he was limping slightly in favor of his left leg, but he also knew that that was probably going to be the case from now on. John figured if his psychosomatic limp ever came back, or just acted up on a rainy day, it would probably be a shitty day, to say the least. This limp wasn’t painful though, but John was already feeling tired. It was taking a little extra focus in walking, and his leg wasn’t used the prosthetic yet.

“Go ahead and practice some more,” the prosthetist said. “Alex will be here shortly, and then you’ll be done for the day.”

John nodded and sat down to catch his breath. _I should probably update my blog_ , he thought. He hadn’t given his blog any thought in the past month, and now he was starting to feel like himself again, he didn’t see why not. Despite the slow process of adapting to the new limb (it had only been a hour for God’s sake) John couldn’t wait to go home, and he started to feel a simmer of excitement to see Sherlock.

*            *            *

John hurriedly walked up the stairs, only partially wary of his new leg. It was still feeling weird, and he knew he should be taking it easy, but he was excited. He walked in the sitting room just in time to see Sherlock placing a bunch of papers on the table and onto the wall above the sofa.

John took a deep breath and walked further into the room. Sherlock was muttering to himself and started to pace back in and forth in front of the couch with his fingers resting under his chin. John glanced at the wall, catching photos of locations and bodies, but not fully comprehending them. His mouth twitched to a promising smile, and stepped further in. Sherlock came to a slow pause and turned around, his face blank.

“John,” he greeted flatly. He prepared to take another step, but then stopped himself and turned back to face John, his eyes widening.

John slowly started to smile. He took another step forward, but then Sherlock’s arms were around him. John let out a light gasp and started to return the embrace, only to find himself being turned around and pushed back out the door.

“Milk, we need milk. And…eggs. Bread. Soap. Go on and get some, I’m busy,” Sherlock stuttered out.

John furrowed his eyebrows and tried to catch his balance. He wasn’t up for a grocery store run and he really wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction. He pressed back against Sherlock and stopped them just above the stairs.

“Sherlock—wait, just wait—,” John took a step back and held up a hand, holding Sherlock back. Sherlock’s eyes flickered with worry, but then he relaxed his face and looked at John.

John stared back at him, giving him a chance to explain.

Sherlock shrugged. “We need food.”

John scoffed, and felt, with unease, the excitement slowly dying. “Well, did you look in the fridge? Because I know we have bread and milk. Eggs can wait. There should be soap in the bathroom under the sink.”

Sherlock blinked a few times and took a step back. “My mistake.”

He stood in front of the door and didn’t move. John raised an eyebrow.

“Can I come in to my flat?”

“No,” Sherlock replied swiftly. John flinched, taken aback.

“Wha—no? What do you mean, no?”

“I mean: you can’t come in.”

“Why?” John demanded.

“Because…I don’t want you to,” Sherlock said flatly. John huffed in disbelief.

“You’re joking. Are—are you still mad at me?”

“No—I mean…yes,” Sherlock said. He looked at the ground for a moment and shuffled his feet, before meeting John’s gaze.

John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, the space has helped. For me at least, but I do miss you. And I missed you the entire time—,”

“Good to know. Now leave.”

John shook his head. “I wasn’t—I mean I understand that you—” John huffed and shook his head once more. “No, no, no, no, I’m not leaving until you give me a good reason why.”

Sherlock straightened up and shrugged. “I don’t want you in the flat.”

John scoffed and shook his head. “That’s not a reason.”

“Yes it is. I don’t want you here, which means you can’t come in. Reasonable enough. Respect someone’s wishes.”

“Oh for—bloody hell, Sherlock! Let me in!” John took a forceful step forward, but Sherlock moved and blocked his way. John stumbled backwards and nearly lost his balance. The prosthetic was starting to get on his nerves now, and it was aggravating against his skin. John glared at Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes, get out of my way,” John growled.

Sherlock’s face faltered. “No,” he responded, a little less firmly than before.

John hardened his glare. “Dammit, Sherlock…” he growled in a low whisper.

Sherlock straightened up and placed his hands on John’s shoulders. He turned him around and then gently but insistently pushed him into their flat through the kitchen door and continued to push him towards their bedroom.

“Stay in there. I—I’m busy out here,” Sherlock said distantly.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock—,” John gasped. He hadn’t been expecting to be led through his own flat, and didn’t find the opportunity to squirm out of Sherlock’s push. 

“Are you working on a case?” John asked, his voice still demanding. He was pushed into the room and then he spun around to the door, but Sherlock was blocking it, and he was bouncing on his feet, as if ready to pounce on John if John tried to escape.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I’m busy.”

John narrowed his eyes at him. “Well, can I help—,”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.” Sherlock didn’t even look convincing, so John didn’t believe him at all.

“Not bloody likely.”

“Extremely likely. I’ll see you later.” Sherlock backed up and was just about leave, when John reached forward and stopped him by wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s wrist.

“Are you blind?” John asked, his tone now laced with disbelief rather than anger.

Sherlock widened his eyes with a very quizzical look in his gaze. He also looked bothered, as if something else was still on his mind.

John stared at him, and then sighed with defeat.

“Not like you to care…” he muttered.

“Care—what—?” Sherlock took one step into the room, still blocking the door however. John let go of his wrist and walked closer to the bed, but still faced Sherlock. Sherlock looked conflicted; he obviously really wanted to go back to the case and was clearly willingly to appear uninterested in John, but his true affections of the doctor were conflicting with his occupied mind. John could tell. It was bothering him so much; it even started to bother himself. He sighed and shrugged.

“Spit it out, John,” Sherlock snapped. His face flickered with an apology, but he started to fidget, and he shifted his balance, as if ready to run back into the living room for the case.

John squared his shoulders. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, and then he turned away and walked out of the room without another word. John stepped forward and closed the door behind him, and then he went over to the bed and sat down. He reached down for the button and released the pin, and then slid his stump out of the casted prosthetic. His residual limb was sore, but it wasn’t bothersome anymore. He put his leg aside, took off the socks and liner, and then gently massaged the area around the surgical scar.

John’s eyes prickled with hurt and he blinked rapidly to clear them away. He shouldn’t feel disappointed in Sherlock’s reaction; he had gotten the prosthetic for himself anyway. Hadn’t he? Now John wasn’t entirely sure. Sherlock wanted him to go on cases again, so why was he being shut out?

John sighed, too tired to look further into it. It probably was an interesting case, but why hide it? It didn’t seem like Sherlock was even hiding it, just that he wanted John out of the flat. Out of his way? John didn’t know. He wiped his face and inhaled deeply, urging the threatening tears to go the hell away, but it was no use, as usual nowadays. The salty tears dripped down his cheeks; John quickly wiped them away and bowed his head. He continued to wipe them away as his back shook with shudders as more tears came. It was quiet and partially due to the overwhelmingly anxious day he just had.

There was a settle knock on the door, and then a hushed sound of footsteps walking away. John waited a few seconds, and then he stood up, balancing himself against the wall as he hopped to the door. He knelt down and opened it to find his laptop on the floor. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but clearly heard in the living room, already back to pacing. John sighed and lifted his laptop from the ground, and then went back inside. He sat on his side of the bed and rested it on his lap. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but he really did want to update his blog, and he wanted a distraction. He opened up the web page and began typing, falling into the natural rhythm of recalling, and in a simple way, shared the news of the accident and his current condition.

John finished a little more than an hour later, and posted it. Now exhausted, he put the laptop on the bedside table and scooted down until he was resting on the pillow and the covers. He didn’t protest when his eyes began to droop for a nap. John fell asleep without another sound from the living room.

_There was rubble everywhere, and the faintest smell of gas infiltrated the atmosphere. John inhaled sharply, but sharp pain stabbed through his body, worsening when he shifted his body. All he could feel was pain below his hips; he couldn’t tell if both of his legs were even there or not._

_Sherlock was beside him, staring at him with fear laced in his green-blue eyes._

_“Wake up, John! P-please, wake up!”_

_Sherlock’s voice didn’t sound like his at all. John let out a choked cry and tried to speak, but he couldn’t seem to voice his thoughts. Sherlock shuffled beside him and placed a cold hand on John’s neck. His partner let out a cry; John tried to move, but his attempt was cut off by a paralyzing jolt of pain._

_“P-please, John, don’t do this to me. Wake up!”_

I’m awake, _John thought_. I am awake, can’t you see? My eyes—

_John’s eyes blurred, causing him to panic. He blinked rapidly, but that didn’t seem to work. He couldn’t even move his head; all he could do was stare at Sherlock’s shuddering figure as he leaned his head against John’s chest, pressing his hand on John’s neck and the other to John’s wrist._

_“Sir, we have to go.”_

_John looked behind Sherlock’s shoulder and caught a glimpse of a man appearing to be a firefighter or some kind of first responder. Sherlock cried against John’s chest and tightened his hold around him._

_“No! I’m not leaving him!”_

_“Sir—,”_

Go ahead, Sherlock _, John thought._ Go on; go!

_As if Sherlock heard him, he shot his head up and glared at John through unshed tears. “I’m not leaving you,” he choked out. “I refuse to leave.”_

Dammit, Sherlock, leave! _John tried to scream out, but he still couldn’t._

_“The roof will collapse at any minute!” the man yelled._

_Sherlock didn’t even respond. He clutched to John’s body, and then there was a loud rumble. The first responder reached for Sherlock and tried to yank him away, but Sherlock pushed him back. He stumbled away just as the rest of the roof holding up debris above them caved in. The space around them was shrinking, and the smell of something burning choked John’s lungs._

Sherlock!

_Parts of the debris caved in on one side. Sherlock was startled and tried to move away without leaving John. He straightened up slightly and prepared to wrap his arms under John’s back, but then the debris collapsed, and individual pieces rained on top of them, one hitting Sherlock in the back of the head. He made a grunt and then collapsed, partly onto John with the side of his head on John’s abdomen, his face looking towards him._

_John burst out screaming, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was even out loud. Sherlock was staring at him, his opened eyes dull and his forehead trickling with blood. John cried out and tried to move, but the pain distorted his mind and his whole body shook as the rest of the roof collapsed on top of them._

_John held his breath as he waited for loss of conscience, but it didn’t come. He parted his eyes and only saw darkness. The atmosphere was constricting and he was so tightly buried underneath the rubble that he could barely inhale. Sherlock was still on top of him, as still as the rubble. It was utterly silent._

_“Sherlock?” John’s voice broke as a strained whisper. The word was short and clipped off without even an echo. John scrunched up his face as he started to cry, not a care left in him to try to control himself._

_He raised his hands and wrapped them around Sherlock’s back, finding only a little space on both sides that wasn’t being crushed by debris. John took in short breaths, his mind already growing foggy and aching. He knew he was going to suffocate, but that didn’t frighten him._

_John was alone—completely alone, except for the lifeless body of his lover on top of him. John urged himself to wake up, but nothing seemed to happen. He continued to cry in hopes of using up his remaining air, but he continued to breath even minutes later, and it felt like it wasn’t going to end. John wept, silently for a while and then loudly, begging under his breath for a miracle or mercy, but nothing was happening!_

Nothing happens to me _, John thought idly._ Nothing happens.

*            *            *

John parted his eyes tiredly to a faint ray of muted sunshine streaming through the blinds. He stiffly sat up and looked at the clock. It was just barely nine in the morning.

He arranged himself until his legs were hanging off the edge, and then he put his prosthetic on, already close to having a routine locked in, despite having it for only a day. John barely even noticed though. He stood up and stretched, and then changed into fresh jeans and a shirt. The jeans were complicated to put on, and after struggling for several minutes, he took off the jeans and prosthetic, put the jeans on over his stump, rolled them up to his knee as much as he could, and then placed the prosthetic back on. He was already exhausted.

And then, he remembered. His eyes widened as the nightmare and all its details flooded John’s memory with distorted scenes and paralyzing pain. He gasped and hurried out the room, already shouting as loud as he could.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK?”

The flat was empty. John’s breathing—the only sound—slowly started to quicken, and his chest was tightening. He turned the kettle on to make tea, forcing himself to fall into a familiar habit and to ignore the flashing images of the nightmare, but then the front door opened. Sherlock was talking aloud, and then John caught Lestrade’s voice. But, he couldn’t comprehend what the two were saying.

John tried to focus on the tea making, but the other two men’s voices became louder, and then stopped altogether. John turned around to see Sherlock and Lestrade standing in the entryway, between the kitchen and sitting room. Sherlock was looking at him closely, not even bothering in hiding his deducing stare. John squirmed and lowered his gaze.

“Greg,” he greeted. “Tea?”

“Er, no, thanks. I won’t be long—”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted. “Everything is there on the wall.”

“What—oh, Jesus, Sherlock, you aren’t supposed to have these—”

Lestrade’s voice trailed away as he headed to the sofa. Sherlock remained standing in the entryway, and John kept his gaze lowered.

“You…got a prosthetic,” Sherlock stated dumbly. John didn’t like his tone, but he nodded anyway.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a second, and then they widened.

“Everything alright?”

John shrugged whilst looking at the floor. He didn’t trust himself to speak, and wasn’t even entirely sure he wanted to talk at the moment, as he was a little afraid what would slip out.

Sherlock walked in until he was standing right in front of John. He placed his hand on John’s chin and tilted it up. John reluctantly met his gaze, urging his own eyes to stop stinging.

“That bad?” Sherlock murmured.

John shakily exhaled. “Horrible.”

Sherlock traced his finger up John’s cheek and then caressed it. John’s eyes fluttered slightly and he leaned into the touch. Sherlock cupped his cheek and then leaned forward. He pressed his lips chastely against the crown of John’s head, and then leaned back. John glanced at his face, noticing the flickering emotions and furrowed brows.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Are we still on the break?” he asked hesitantly.

John exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to be anymore.”

Sherlock noticeably relaxed and nodded. “Good. Me neither.”

John offered a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He shifted his posture, and then cleared his throat.

“We just…need to be straight with each other from now on.”

Sherlock shuffled his feet. “I hope you don’t mean that in the bedroom.”

John stilled and then let out a genuine laugh. He met Sherlock’s gaze, and felt lighter at the sight of amusement on his lover’s face. He leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s lips smoothly with his, kissing him gently and chaste, and ignoring himself flinching. Sherlock picked up the pace, and then parted his mouth to let John’s tongue in as he hummed deeply in his throat and caressed John’s sides. John leaned forward until his chest was against Sherlock’s. He slowed down his lips, and kissed Sherlock with lingering kisses as he started to trail off his mouth and to his cheek. John grazed Sherlock’s skin with his lips before kissing the spot, and then moving on to the other side. Sherlock’s breathing hitched as John sucked at the corner of his lips for a moment, and their hot breaths mixed together as John moved along Sherlock’s face.

John’s cheek burned with the affection, and he craved more. He leaned back far enough to whisper in Sherlock’s ear and leaned into Sherlock’s hand that was resting on his lower back.

“Can we—.”

“Yes,” Sherlock responded in a throaty whisper. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was heavy. John’s heart hammered with nerves and excitement. Sherlock cleared his throat and grazed his lips once more along John’s thinner lips as he spoke.

“But Lestrade is in the other room still.”

John choked out a small laugh. “Get him out of here,” he said lightly.

Sherlock nodded. “Lestrade?” he called out. He took a step away from John and turned towards the entryway. John missed the contact already, and followed him out. Lestrade was by the wall where there were photos pinned, and he was talking in a hushed voice to Mrs. Hudson, who was holding a package.

“Oh, good you’re both here,” Mrs. Hudson greeted them kindly. She smiled at them and then set own the package on the table in front of the sofa.

“This just came. I had to sign for it.” She smiled and then began heading to kitchen.

“You’ll have a cup of tea, Detective Inspector, before you’ll go.”

Lestrade shuffled his feet but didn’t protest. He nodded his head to the evidence Sherlock had, and raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Sherlock cut him to it.

“In a moment,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounded agitated. John furrowed his brows as he looked at the package. It was addressed to him. He picked it up and brought it over to the counter. Sherlock shuffled closer to Lestrade and began whispering. John felt a tinge of hurt that he was left out, but he knew he would get whatever it was out of Sherlock soon, everyone just had to leave first. He looked at the package from side to side and read the address label.

The package was about three feet long, and it was wrapped in parcel paper and tied tightly by string. It was addressed to John, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

_Probably extra liners from the hospital,_ he thought.

John snipped the string and ripped the paper apart to reveal a wooden box. He pried it open easily and lifted the lid up. The inside was full of plastic bubble wrap and stuck to it was a note.

**Thought you might need this.**

**Sincerely, a potential client.**

John furrowed his eyebrows. He set the note aside and removed the plastic, only to gasp and freeze in place as a cold chill ran down his spine, filling his mind in dread.

In the box was a severed leg, cut at the knee, and tightly wrapped up in plastic.

John’s eyes widened.

_I’m still dreaming, oh God—wake up now!_

John only blinked a couple of times and then Sherlock was standing in front of him, grasping his shoulders tightly. His mouth was moving by John couldn’t understand him. John’s eyes flickered over Sherlock’s shoulder and vaguely comprehended the appearance of Lestrade. He glanced back at Sherlock, his vision blurring. The sounds around him were mere echoes, unfathomable apart from the urgent tone. John tried to focus—he really did—but then his vision blackened completely and he could feel himself fall into Sherlock’s arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my world go round <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the late update. It's been a month and I am so dearly sorry! Here's a long chapter for you. The next one should come soon. School is just about over and work is crazy but I'll do my absolute best, so let's say around the 18th (the latest), there should be a new chapter :)

**Chapter 7**

_John found himself once again buried underneath the rubble with Sherlock’s still body lying on top of him. He couldn’t hear anything, not even himself, and hoped to anyone out there if he could be heard. Something cold dripped against his forehead, and then a piercing, bright light shined in his eyes._

John shot upwards as he screamed. He was back in their bedroom, and Sherlock was by his side, tense and at the ready to comfort John. John’s eyes flickered across the room and over Sherlock’s body, forcing himself to point out the evidence that Sherlock was alive, and focused on it. He noticed a washcloth by Sherlock’s hand, and then he faintly heard noises from down the hall.

John inhaled sharply. “The b-box—Sher—,”

“Lestrade’s taking care of it,” Sherlock responded calmly.

John didn’t feel convinced. “How did—how is it—?” he stuttered. He inhaled shakily and urged Sherlock to answer; unaware he barely formed a question. Sherlock looked confused for a few seconds, and he stared at John. His eyes widened, and then his face softened.

“John. It’s not your leg. It’s someone else’s,” Sherlock explained firmly.

John blinked, as he slowly comprehended this. He stiffly nodded, and relief overcame him. He started to tremble, so he leaned forward to Sherlock. Sherlock wiped John’s forehead with his hand and lightly caressed his cheek. John’s skin tingled at the contact. He shifted on the bed and sought out more by wrapping his arms around Sherlock and resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock returned the embrace without hesitation.

“Who would do that?” John muttered. The sight was still fresh in his mind, and he shivered at the memory.

Sherlock leaned away, biting his lip. John only caught a glimpse of the expression, but enough of it. He leaned away too, hardening his gaze.

“You know, don’t you? You’re not surprised—” John claimed.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No—I mean, yes, I know who it’s from, but I’m surprised it was sent to us.”

John narrowed his eyes and stared at him, silently ordering him to continue. Sherlock shifted on the bed until they were facing each other.

“The case I’m working on, it’s why I tried to get you to leave the flat yesterday.”

“Why?” John demanded.

Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you now, John. The victims are attacked, knocked out for long enough, and when they wake up, a limb is missing. There have been five so far. First it was a finger, than a hand, arm, foot, and now a leg. It’s obvious he took the opportunity of your blog post to directly acknowledge my investigations.”

John furrowed his brows. “Do you know who he is?”

“Maurice Fletcher. He had been fired as a pathologist just a few months ago, and all of his victims were colleagues of his. He’s really an idiot, for doing that. If that attacks had been more random, it would have much more thrilling—”   

John glared at Sherlock lightly, but dismissed the insensitivity this time. He wasn’t sure how to feel, that Sherlock hadn’t let him in on the case, or the fact that they were now being targeted in some way, acknowledged about their involvement and John’s similarity with the other victims.

John cleared his throat. “Do we know who the leg belongs to?”

Sherlock nodded. “His boss, Joe Stevens. He had been missing for two days, and the connection to Fletcher wasn’t obvious to Scotland Yard, so it wasn’t investigated yet. But a simple employment search would have been the obvious connection. I was expecting him to have been attacked soon, just not…this. His body had been found earlier this morning, and I was at the lab when Lestrade came to me to take me to the scene, but I came here first too…”

Sherlock lowered his gaze briefly before meeting John’s eyes.

“I wanted to let you know where I was going,” he said.

John scoffed lightly. “But, you want me to stay here. I get it. I can’t exactly chase criminals around just yet.”

He looked up Sherlock with a mixture of jealously, resentment, and frustration, but only saw amusement in Sherlock’s eyes.

“What—it’s not funny—,”

“I didn’t say it was. Nor did I say you have to stay. I’m only saying, it could be dangerous.”

John softened his face and slowly smiled at his partner. He stood up slowly, gained his balance, and then nodded to the door.

“So, to the scene?”

Sherlock started to smile, only to pause. “You are alright, though? The nightmare—?”

John nodded honestly. “I’m okay. I need this…this normalcy. You can give me that, yes?”

Sherlock smiled wider. “Yes. I can.” He leaned forward and kissed John deeply and quickly before pulling away. “C’mon, John!”

He left the room with John limping slightly behind them, and both of them put their jackets on. A few people were dealing with the leg and package, as Lestrade was taking notes, and then he raised an eyebrow, questioning the two as they began to leave.

“Lestrade, we need to see the body now, before any more of your idiots mess it up,” Sherlock stated.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “All right. The forensics will be done here soon, and they’ll let themselves out. I’ll drive you both.” He walked passed them and led them downstairs. John smirked at Sherlock’s brief annoyance, and started to feel a flicker of his true self as he settled in the car. He grinned at Sherlock, and received a grin back.

*            *            *

Lestrade pulled up to the crime scene, a deserted shoreline along the river with police tape surrounding it. Sherlock strutted through the slimy rocks without hesitation. John cautiously took a step at a time, wary of his right leg. It was only his second day, and although he was excited for the case, feeling this normalcy suddenly seemed to exhaust him during the car ride. He eventually made it to the scene, where Sherlock was waiting for him by the tape, his eyes flickering with concern.

John nodded slightly and grinned softly. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer, and then he seemed to accept John’s response. He lifted the tape for John, and then followed him under it and went towards the crime scene.

“Body washed up on shore,” Sherlock said as he started to walk around the body, without giving Lestrade a chance to speak. “Clothes soaked, skin wrinkled enough, I’d say he’d been in the water for at least twenty-four hours. The leg is missing, but there isn’t any more blood coming out, so cause of death could be he bleed to death, or he drowned first, but John?”

Sherlock looked at him expectantly, part of habit, and John relaxed at that. He kneeled down stiffly and rearranged his legs until he was comfortable, and then looked closely. The skin was paler than it would be dry, and after examining the man’s mouth and chest, he leaned away and looked at Sherlock.

“He doesn’t seem to have any water in his lungs. There isn’t any kind of physical sign that he drowned. It would be proven after an autopsy though,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, and leaned closer, pointing to the victim’s head. “Traumatic brain injury, killing him nearly instantly,” he pointed out.

Lestrade gaped at him. “But the leg was cut off—”

“He was attacked and fell, hitting his head. Fletcher probably didn’t intend to kill him, but took the opportunity anyway, and cut off his leg, and then pushed him into the water, washing the blood away. There’s still a little bleeding, but there wouldn’t be much after this much time.” Sherlock sighed and took a step back. He pointed across the river to the docks where a few sailboats were tied up.

“He has a boat, and was working on it when he was attacked. It was the middle of the night, so no one would have seen anything from a glance. If you use the matter in your brains and ask the management, you can get a clean shot from the security camera from over there,” Sherlock said with a twinge of annoyance, although John caught a flicker of enjoyment in his eyes.

“Brilliant,” John stated with affection as he stood up, but then his right foot slipped against the rock, and he stumbled backwards, landing in the muddy shore before he could catch his balance. Sherlock was quickly by his side before John realized what happened, and he let out a sharp laugh, catching both he and Sherlock by surprise.

Sherlock flinched and narrowed his eyes. John looked up at him, and slowly let out another laugh, this one softer. Sherlock’s face crinkled slightly, and then he let out a short, softer laugh as well, but it didn’t last.

John took his offered hand and stood up stiffly, but then his foot slipped again, and he fell forward into Sherlock’s arms. He glanced around and realized people were staring. John’s face reddened. He stabled his feet on the wet ground, and pulled away.

“You all right?” Sherlock asked softly, his brows furrowed with concern. John nodded, and smiled softly.

“I’m fine. Ready to go, or do you want to continue to insult these guys?”

Sherlock’s brows didn’t relax. “We should go; you need to rest your leg—”

John placed a finger against Sherlock’s lips gently, silencing him. “I’m fine. It’s up to you.” He looked intently at him, hoping to convey that it really was all right.

Sherlock seemed to ponder this, and then he turned around and faced Lestrade. “You can deal with the logistics, Lestrade. Let me know if you locate Fletcher, although I probably will before you.” It wasn’t even a question, and Sherlock was already heading back to the road. John shook his head with disbelief, and followed him.

*            *            *

Sherlock held the door to their flat opened, and John headed up the steps. His leg was sore and unused to this amount of activity, but it wasn’t unbearable. He headed to the kitchen, and sighed when he realized he didn’t even have his morning tea.

As he prepared the kettle again, Sherlock silently discarded his coat and jacket, and walked up behind John.

“I can do that,” he offered.

John glanced at him and shook his head. “I’ve got it.”

Sherlock shrugged and left him to it. John paused his actions, narrowed his eyes, and then followed Sherlock into the sitting room, clenching his fists as he did so.

“Why do you…” John trailed off, suddenly at a loss for words. Sherlock turned around and faced him, but by the way his eyes flickered, he seemed to know what John was talking about. He remained silent however, and allowed John to continue.

“Why have you been—” John waved his hand in between them and around him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows with slightly amusement.

“Hovering?” he offered.

“Yeah…” John agreed weakly.

Sherlock smiled softly and shrugged. “I worry,” he whispered. He furrowed his brows and stared at the ground. John shuffled his feet and took a few steps forward, but then he paused.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” John defended awkwardly. He unclenched his fists and crossed his arms over his chest. “We could have stayed. It was just a slip.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “I thought you coming along with me would let things go back to normal. But, then you fell.”

John shrugged. “It’s bound to happen again.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shuffled his feet, directing his gaze to the wall behind John and hesitantly flickering over his face. “It’s not the same. Nothing is the same.” He sighed aggravatingly and started to pace. John exhaled sharply and took a few steps closer.

“Sherlock—,”

“I still feel guilty. I don’t want to, John, but all of this is my fault—”

“You need to stop—”

Sherlock rounded onto him, staring at him with a slight pleading look in his eyes.  “I led us to that building. I saw the evidence that it could collapse. But I wanted to catch the criminal—

“And that’s understandable—.”

“I led you there!” Sherlock snapped. “It was all on me—”

John ran his hand through his hair with frustration and stepped closer, now nearly face-to-face with Sherlock. “No, it’s not! You didn’t construct the building. You didn’t own the building. You didn’t know, Sherlock, you didn’t—”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening to him anymore. He was pacing again, his hands were trembling, and his eyes were glistening. John had hoped this was over, but it clearly wasn’t. He may have finally been able to accept everything, but Sherlock clearly hadn’t yet. John swallowed tightly and followed him, grazing his arms over Sherlock’s arms, but Sherlock flinched and pulled away. John reached for him and held him tighter. Sherlock spun out of his grasp and glared at him.

“Now you’re touching me!? You flinch every other time. We barely kiss anymore without a flinch—”

John glared at him. “This morning wasn’t bad!”

“There were still flinches!” Sherlock spat, almost sounding like a child, although John knew it was more to do with the reason for the flinches.

John sighed. “You feeling guilty isn’t helping.”

“So, it is my fault!” Sherlock shouted.

“No!” John stepped right up to Sherlock, in which his nose was just barely grazing Sherlock’s. “It’s not your fault,” he said sternly. “But you need to tell yourself that, not me. You want to kiss me, so kiss me. If I flinch, ignore it. You flinch too—we both do, and we need to ignore it. It doesn’t mean I don’t want this, Sherlock. I’m ready. I need you now, more than ever. I. Want. You.”

Sherlock’s facial expression softened. “I want you too, John,” he said gently.

“Then what are you wait—”

Sherlock leaned forward the remaining inch and pressed his lips hard against John’s. John opened his mouth welcoming, and allowed Sherlock’s tongue in without pause. Sherlock explored his mouth and slowed his pace. He started walking forward, and John went along with him. They stumbled down the hall and quickly made it to the bedroom. John fell onto his back on the bed, and Sherlock followed quickly.

Sherlock started to slow down, but John didn’t want to just yet. He continued to deepen the kiss, and ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, trailing them down to his backside and holding him steadily against him. Sherlock laced his fingers with John’s and held one of his arms above John’s head, and then slid his other one in between their bodies, resting just over John’s belt buckle.

Sherlock pulled away for a moment, and John hoped Sherlock wasn’t backing out now. He needed this—they both did, if they ever wanted to move on.

Sherlock met John’s eyes and stared at him with longing.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and tinged with a slight shudder. He was as close as he could be against John’s body, with them both lying flat on the bed and their chests heaving against the others.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock,” he spoke fondly. He tilted his head back slightly and arched upwards, pressing his lips lightly against Sherlock’s before leaning back. There was a moment of space between them, and then Sherlock followed him down and closed the remaining inch, kissing John back and keeping his mouth closed. He started to part his mouth slowly, and kissed that way for several moments as they breathed against each other, their cheeks reddening with arousal and from each other’s hot breath. John’s skin was sweating slightly with the added heat, and his clothes and the prosthetic felt uncomfortable against his sweaty skin. John broke the kiss and caught his breath, and then lowered his gaze, directing it to his leg.

“Take it off,” he ordered lightly. Sherlock paused for a moment and then crawled backwards until he was on the floor kneeling in front of John. John sat up with his legs over the edge of the bed. Sherlock quickly found the button on the ankle and pressed it. The prosthetic slid off, and all remained were the socks and liner with the pin. John looked at Sherlock and nodded, allowing him to go on. Sherlock slowly continued, first by pulling the two pairs of socks off, and then the liner. John’s residual limb was a little red and cool at the touch. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s knee. John reached forward and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. He pulled him closer and met him halfway, before pressing his lips softly against Sherlock’s.

He trailed his hands down Sherlock’s neck to his collarbone, and slowly began unbuttoning his shirt while kissing him. Sherlock repeated the movements to John’s shirt, and soon they were both shirtless.

John leaned back, and then Sherlock crawled over him again, running his hands over his bare skin. John scooted back onto the bed until he was completely lying flat, with Sherlock hovering over him. Sherlock paused halfway and started to press his lips along John’s hip, making his way up, oh so slowly that John was already squirming underneath.

“Shh,” Sherlock murmured against his skin. “I want this to last.”

John huffed roughly. “So do I,” he said. “But not forever. There’ll be plenty more times.”

He could feel Sherlock grin against his skin, and he sat up slightly and leaned against his elbows to look down at Sherlock. Sherlock tilted his head up and met his gaze with a small smirk.

“There will be,” Sherlock agreed. His smirk widened to a smile, and John smiled back. Sherlock lowered his head back to John’s hip and restarted his kisses, starting at John’s hip and making his way up to his belly. John lightly moved his hips upwards against Sherlock’s chest, gaining a soft moan from the man. He repeated his actions, only to then be held down gently by Sherlock’s hands, which were placed on his hips at Sherlock moved upward, pressing kisses just below John’s pectoral.

He paused, and didn’t start again. John looked down to see Sherlock staring intently at John’s pectoral, below the right one to be exact. He sat up again and leaned on his elbows. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over the fading bruise, and his jaw slowly clenched, as did his hands on John’s hips. John squirmed slightly to relieve the pressure, but then Sherlock’s hands were gone and John wished he hadn’t moved at all.

John shifted upwards to lighten the weight on his elbows. He silently watched Sherlock, allowing the man to think. Sherlock looked intently at John’s skin. He slowly shifted and leaned back, and then he rested his hands back on John’s sides again, grazing the skin lightly with his fingertips. It looked like he was recording the feeling to his mind palace. John wouldn’t be surprised, and gave him as long as Sherlock needed, in silence.

Sherlock lowered his head and pressed a long kiss against John’s skin, but lightly enough that John could barely feel it. He could feel Sherlock breath against him. John sat up further until he was completely upright, looking down to Sherlock’s bowed head. He moved his left arm and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, and tilted it up. He met Sherlock’s hesitant gaze, and then caressed his cheek with his thumb. Sherlock leaned into the touch, and then turned his head. He pressed his lips to John’s thumb, and then kissed his fingertips one by one.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and paused his lips by John’s overturned wrist.

“I love you,” he murmured.

John’s heart skipped a beat. He smiled and moved his hand passed Sherlock’s mouth and grazed it along Sherlock’s cheek, and then leaned forward and kissed his downturned lips.

Sherlock tilted his head up, his eyes glistening against the dim light.

“I keep hurting you—,” he whispered so quietly, John only heard him because he was just close enough to do so. He leaned back and cupped Sherlock’s jaw a little firmer and nearly made him look at him. Sherlock met his gaze less reluctantly than a moment ago, and he shuddered.

“You don’t believe that,” John protested quietly. “You didn’t want to hurt me.”

Sherlock shook his head and shakily exhaled.

“I try to care for you, John. But…”

John cupped the other side of his cheek and ran his thumbs along both sides.

“Accidents happen, and it always will. You’ll get hurt, and I will too. I don’t care, Sherlock. It’s part of this life I chose—and we can do as much as we can to make sure we’re safe, but we’re not perfect. I still choose you. I’ll always choose you—hell, even without all of this, I want to spend my life with you, one way or another.”

Sherlock’s face softened and he nodded once.

“I need to take care of you. For once, I…”

“I know. And you have been. Thank you for…” John trailed off and swallowed tightly. He inhaled slowly and blinked a few times, breaking eye contact. Sherlock leaned closer, however possible, and trailed his nose against John’s, seeming like a silent urging.

“For staying,” John continued. “For not leaving me,” he finished with a whisper.

Sherlock exhaled sharper and lifted his gaze. “I’ll never leave you.”

John nodded, unable to find the words. They leaned forward together and kissed each other, already picking up a pace. John leaned back until he rested his head on a pillow. Sherlock scooted up until he was lying over John’s body and was still face to face with him. Their kisses deepened and became more drawn out. John ran his hands along Sherlock’s hips, while Sherlock caressed John’s lower back and side. John moved his hands along Sherlock’s back, and then rolled to the side, flipping them. Sherlock squirmed underneath him and then parted his legs, expanding room for John to fit in perfectly.

John squirmed on top of him and then leaned away, holding himself upright with his palms and directing his gaze to Sherlock’s hips.

“Those need to come off,” he said roughly. He cleared his throat and met Sherlock’s amused gaze.

“By all means.” Sherlock smirked. John smirked back and then crawled backwards. He slipped his hands behind Sherlock’s waistband and slid the pants off of him, Sherlock’s erection slipping out and nearly fully hard as it rested up against his skin. John leaned back and looked at Sherlock lying on his back, fully naked now and nearly glowing with arousal. John seemed to get lost in the sight, because Sherlock leaned up on his elbows and fidgeted his foot against John’s thigh, catching his attention. John smiled and then crawled forward, pushing Sherlock back onto his back without fully touching him. Their noses grazed each other lazily as did their lips.

As Sherlock trailed his hands along John’s sides, John pulled his pants down with one hand and kicked them off before tossing them out of the way. His residual limb tingled with discomfort for holding him up, so he gently laid himself nearly flat on Sherlock’s chest, both of their naked bodies already warm with arousal. Shivering from the cooler air, John reached for the sheet and pulled it over his backside. It was cool to the touch but saved the warm air into a tighter space. John slid his hands underneath Sherlock’s back, and then moved his body up and down once, grazing his cock against Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock groaned underneath him and arched upwards. John smirked; he lifted himself up a little higher by his palms and moved forwards, pausing with his chin by Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock shifted beneath him and rearranged his body until his cock was resting against John’s. John sighed contently and lowered himself onto Sherlock, increasing the pressure between their groins.

“Oh, John…” Sherlock murmured heavily. John breathed heavily against Sherlock’s forehead, and then tilted his head down to graze his cheek against Sherlock’s. He relaxed his body and placed his arms by Sherlock’s head. He thrusted his hips upwards, but then winced.

“Shit—we need lube,” he stuttered. Sherlock shifted, and stretched his arm out to the bedside table. He stretched just enough and managed to grab the bottle. He applied a generous amount to his hand and then slipped his hands between their bodies. He stroked John’s cock first, earning a flattering expression on his lover’s face.

“That’s nice,” John murmured. Sherlock grinned, and then applied the rest to himself. He removed his hands and then wrapped his arms John’s shoulders; John wrapped his arms underneath Sherlock’s back, and together in a hugging embrace, began to thrust against each other.

The both of them were silent for a moment; they breathed heavily and clutched at each other. John’s speed began to pick up; thrusted against Sherlock harder, moaning Sherlock’s name with his chapped lips.

“John…” Sherlock moaned. He slid his hand down John’s right thigh and pulled it over his hip while simultaneously turning over onto his right side. John settled against the pillow fittingly and managed to keep his grasp around Sherlock’s body. His rhythm faltered slightly, and then he slowly picked up the pace again, thrusting again Sherlock’s leaking cock.

“John—!” Sherlock gasped and picked up his pace. He breathed in large gulps against John’s neck. “Come like this, okay? Is this okay?”

John nodded roughly against Sherlock’s temple. “Yes…close—I’m close—.”

“Me too…”

John tightened his hold around Sherlock, and thrusted slower and harder against him. Sherlock mimicked his movements, and then John tensed. He arched his back and gasped Sherlock’s name as he came. He moaned and thrusted through the aftershocks, and then Sherlock came against him, moaning John’s name in the crook of his neck as he clutched onto him and thrusted through the climax.

John slowly relaxed against him; his eyes fluttering close as his face softened with content. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in only John, his heartbeat slowing down with the smell of his love. He had missed this close intimacy, and had been afraid for weeks he had ruined it. Sherlock reveled quietly in this aftermath; thinking, _finally_ , and held John close. He wasn’t afraid anymore of losing John. He started to accept his actions consequences, and began to believe deep down, all of this was worth it. John was alive, and in his arms, choosing to be so.

John exhaled slowly against Sherlock’s neck, and he basked in this greatly missed affection. He felt like he was falling in love all over again. He was relieved beyond anything else, and felt nearly the most loved than he ever had before—excluding the moments with Sherlock cutting of his leg. John counted that, although he wouldn’t tell Sherlock. He was loved so much by the detective; enough to be held onto too despite the pain he had to go through afterwards. Looking back, it was all worth it—all of it, if it meant he would be in Sherlock’s arms now, and forevermore afterwards.

John breathed heavily against Sherlock’s back. Sherlock’s breath was hot against his skin, sending shivers down his flushed body. John sighed contently and parted his eyes. Sherlock was looking at him in a dazed, unfocused way, but his face was relaxed. John grinned at the sight and trailed his fingertips lightly against Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock shifted closer and grazed his nose against John’s cheek.

John wanted to move closer and doze against his lover, but his skin was starting to feel sticky against Sherlock and the sheet. He shifted slightly and leaned up onto his elbows. Sherlock shifted to the side and onto his back, directing his gaze to John’s eyes.

“Don’t leave,” Sherlock murmured.

“I’ll just wipe ourselves off,” John murmured back. He pressed his lips lightly against Sherlock’s temple, who hummed in response. He moved the sheet off of him and shivered in the cooler air. He scooted to the edge of the bed, and attempting to take a step forward, he stood up. But, instead of standing, John crumbled to the ground—“oof”— and caught himself roughly on all fours.

He huffed with amusement, too blissfully relaxed to be truly annoyed, and looked over his shoulder. Sherlock was already leaning over the edge of the bed, his body tense as if ready to pounce, and worry was etched over his face.

John laughed.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and remained still, as if he was stunned with unwarranted worry. John softened his amusement and shifted forward onto his knees. He crawled forward, leaned up, and rested his elbows on the edge of the bed. He stretched his neck up and lightly kissed Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m alright. My legs are just numb,” John said in a light, teasing tone.

Sherlock kept his eyes lowered for another moment, and then he inhaled deeply and slowly met John’s gently gaze.

“I was that good, then?” Sherlock slowly started to smirk. John grinned and kissed him once more.

“So good,” he said against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock returned the pressure and proceeded in wrapping his hand over the back of John’s neck, holding him in place. John stood up higher on his knees and pushed forward. Sherlock started leaned back; he moved his hand to John’s back and placed the other one on one part of John’s backside, and the lifted him forward. John huffed against Sherlock’s lips and allowed himself to be pulled back onto the bed.

John squirmed on top of Sherlock and pulled away hesitantly, earning the start of a protest from Sherlock. John placed a finger on his lips, silencing him.

“We should get cleaned up,” John pointed out. Sherlock huffed and sat up, wrapping his arms around John’s waist to hold him in his lap.

“I don’t see the point if we’ll be having a second round.”

John laughed and began to speak, only to have his lips sealed by Sherlock’s. John sighed against him and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck, pulling themselves close and pressing their chests against each other. The cool air shivered John’s exposed skin, but the warmth that trailed down his from his lips to his neck, and then waist and groin, was worth the contrast.

John parted his lips wider, and moaned as Sherlock deepened the kiss. His lips moved almost methodically, yet with utter, pure affection.

John lay back down onto his back and gazed up at Sherlock. Sherlock stared down at him with longing, and with a rising blush on his cheekbones.

“What?” John asked lightly.

Sherlock blinked and focused on John’s face more intently. John squirmed underneath his gaze, feeling his arousal increase again. He wasn’t sure just how long it would take to have a second round, but the feeling wasn’t unwarranted. Sherlock licked his lips, lowered himself over John’s body, and then slowly made his way down—not kissing but merely grazing his skin. He came to a pause by John’s leg, and then wrapped his hand around John’s stump. John felt a pang of nervousness, but he allowed Sherlock to life his leg up and placed it over his shoulder.

Sherlock moved forward, keeping John’s leg over his shoulder. John arched upwards slightly to accommodate the position of his leg. Sherlock lowered himself onto John’s chest, and pressed his lips to the end of John’s neck, above his collarbone. His shoulders were tense, as were his hands, but he continued the kiss, and relaxed noticeably. His face softened with relief, and then a tinge of surprise. John couldn’t keep still any longer. He sat up and lowered his leg; Sherlock was slightly below him with his head by John’s abdomen. John took Sherlock’s face between his hands and held him to his forehead. Sherlock pressed against him and exhaled slowly.

A muted ringtone cut through the silence, coming from Sherlock’s trousers that were on the floor. Sherlock sighed, and started to pull away, but John wouldn’t let him.

“Stay,” John quietly pleaded. Sherlock agreed right away, and raised his eyes to meet John’s. John grinned reassuringly.

“Let’s not do anything until tomorrow, yeah? We should get some sleep.”

“What about washing up? That was your original goal,” Sherlock reminded him with a calm tone.

John huffed lightly. “Oh, right. Lets shower then, and then sleep. For a bit at least.”

Sherlock nodded, and then in one fluid motion, stood up from the bed, leaned forward, and picked John up, bridal style, into his arms. John gasped at the sudden change, but managed to keep still as Sherlock altered his weight. He leaned against Sherlock’s chest and laughed.

“Why’d you do that?”

“To take you to the shower. We’ll shower together, obviously, and this way you don’t have to hop.”

John laughed again. Sherlock carried him into the bathroom, and John carefully arranged himself out of his arms and stood on the ground, holding onto Sherlock’s arm for balance.

Sherlock turned to the side and pulled the shower curtain opened. He turned the shower on, and then adjusted the temperature. After a few moments, he held the curtain to the side, giving space for John to enter. John looked at him with a curious look, but stepped into the shower anyway. He held onto the plastic railing that was by his hip, and he stabilized his balance. He was facing the shower spray, where Sherlock stepped underneath as he followed John in.

John shifted his balance, feeling a little uncomfortable. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows slightly as he wet his hair.

“Alright, John?”

John narrowed his eyes and fidgeted. “Fine.” His attitude was different than it was just a few minutes ago—a drastic drop that exhausted John. 

“It’s just…this isn’t exactly sexy,” John explained, his voice trembling slightly.

Sherlock softened his expression and stepped out from under the spray. He pulled the curtain away and reached for the shower chair. Stiffly, he lifted it into the shower, and then placed it between him and John. John gaped at him in disbelief.

“C’mon, Sherlock, that’s not even close.” John’s hand clenched on the railing, and his eyes flickered unhappily to the ground. “I’ll just wait my turn—,”

“Not everything has to be sexy, John,” Sherlock pointed out. “Sit.”

John huffed, but sat down anyway, clenching his jaw. He rotated his body until he was facing Sherlock. Sherlock reached forward and caressed his cheek with his thumb.

John fidgeted under his gaze, but didn’t pull away from his touch.

“There’s always something…” John whispered, but then trailed off.

Sherlock caressed his cheek once more, and then stepped forward. He parted his legs and sat in John’s lap, placing his legs over the chair to the other side and pressing his chest against John’s. Sherlock settled in John’s lap and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“Always what?” Sherlock pried.

John tensed beneath him and shrugged. “Despite…accepting all of this and moving on, there are some things we can’t do like we use to. Like shower—,”

“We’re showering now, John.”

“You know what I mean. We can’t exactly wash each other’s bodies like this.”

“How is this not sexy?” Sherlock asked lightly as he rotated his hips slightly, earning a gasp from John. Sherlock smirked for a moment, and then he softened his expression and met John’s gaze. “We just have to find new ways.”

John started to grin and relax. “We keep having to reassure each other,” he pointed out.”

Sherlock huffed. “I know. It’s getting tedious.”

John nodded, and then his eyes brightened and he started to smirk. “Well then?”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly. “What?”

“Let’s find a new way.”

A little while later, the two, freshly showered, wandered into the bedroom, with John hopping beside Sherlock. They climbed underneath the covers and snuggled against each other, John’s left arm underneath Sherlock and Sherlock’s right arm holding John close to his chest. John’s eyes were already drooping as he settled against the sheets. They didn’t feel the need to say anything else, and promptly ignored Sherlock’s phone as they dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for updates, hints, and everything in between, check out my tumblr watsonsanatomy.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the hiatus! I don't really have an excuse except real life and writer's block. There's one more chapter after this. I hope the tone isn't too different. It's becoming more of a case fic as I had planned last summer, but still angsty. 
> 
>  
> 
> Info about boats:
> 
> Mask: large pole that stands vertically and holds the sail  
> Boom: vertical pole that sticks out from mask  
> Back of boat: stern  
> Front: bow  
> bottom: hull
> 
> I hope I got it fairly accurate and makes sense at the same time. It's trickier than I'd thought.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy this short intro to the ending of this wrenching fic :)

**Chapter 8**

 

John shifted awake to a distant sound of ringing. He shifted his body, only for the arms encircling his waist from behind to tighten. John sighed with content and adjusted himself against the pillows just as the ringing stopped.

But about a minute later, the phone rang again. John huffed and turned over towards Sherlock, and then shuffled closer until he was pressing his nose against Sherlock’s neck.

“Turn it off or answer it,” John mumbled. Sherlock shuffled closer and huffed something incoherently. The phone rang again.

John sighed and reached over with his eyes closed, picked up the phone from the bedside table, and then lazily tossed it by Sherlock’s resting head. Sherlock peaked at the screen with a blurry gaze. Barely a breath later, Sherlock was out of bed, the sheets discarded to the side as he already started pacing out of the room.

“Maurice Fletcher has been spotted by near the crime scene! Let’s go, John! We can catch up to him.”

John shifted onto his back, not fully awake with his eyes still closed. He blinked them open and reached for his jeans from the floor, and then began putting them on. He shimmied them over his stump, and then rolled the pant leg over his knee as far as it could go.

Sherlock paced back into the bedroom, fully dressed, and started to put on his coat.

“Give me a hand,” John said.

Sherlock paused and reached forward. John grinned and arched forward, wrapping his stump around Sherlock’s backside and pulling him forward. Sherlock let out a startled gasp and landed on top of him. John tightened his hold and smirked.

“John—.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered with confliction, but then he smirked and relaxed. He met John’s eyes and lowered his own, causing John to inhale sharply. Sherlock leaned forward, and just as his lips grazed John’s, John relaxed his hold just enough, and then Sherlock nearly jumped out of his grasp and straightened back onto his two feet.

“The game is on!” he exclaimed with excitement. John laughed and composed himself, and then stood up and followed after him.

*            *            *

John watched in mild confusion as Sherlock’s eyes flickered over the screen.

“Seems too easy,” he muttered. Sherlock only hummed in agreement. The footage revealed Fletcher’s location, and as Lestrade had examined other footage as well, it was clear where the murderer had gone to hide.

“Just an idiot,” Sherlock finally spoke aloud. “Seems we’ve gotten used to the criminal mastermind class.” Sherlock’s eyes glistened with a hint of nostalgia, causing John to flinch with a pang of worry. Meeting John’s gaze and reading his expression in an instant, Sherlock softened his expression.

“This is preferred,” he whispered to his partner. “No matter how dull,” he added.

John composed himself and nodded understandingly. “As long as you’re here,” John whispered back.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered and he looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he only nodded, and then directed his attention back to Lestrade.

“We’ll check out the crime scene again. He’s gone back there for something he left, probably the murder weapon, before Scotland Yard finds it, although if it’s taken you this long Fletcher would probably get it before you do.”

Without looking at Lestrade’s reaction to the insult, Sherlock turned on his heel and nearly strutted out of the room. John began to follow him, when Lestrade gently pulled him aside.

“If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I will meet you there at the crime scene. It should still be taped off,” Lestrade said firmly.

John nodded with understanding, and then hurried after Sherlock.

By the time John and Sherlock finally made it to the dock, the sun was setting and Maurice Fletcher was clearly in the distance, sailing away on an out-of-place, forty-foot sailboat, seemingly unaware of their presence close behind.

“What do we do?” John asked. Their surroundings glowed against the setting sun, contrasting with the distant streetlamps and light from the rising moon. There weren’t any other boats around, except for a small wooden dinghy that was tied up to the side of the deck. As John saw it, he immediately hoped it would be dismissed as an option. He was ultimately kidding himself.

Sherlock’s eyes lit up and headed straight to the roughed up little boat. “C’mon, John,” he said over his shoulder. John suppressed a sigh and followed him. Sherlock hopped from the dock into the boat gracefully, and then paused, before taking off his coat and then handing it to John. His partner gaped at him.

“It’s freezing out, and it’ll be dark soon—,” John started to protest, and then added, “and what if you fall in? I’m not lending you mine to dry off.”

Sherlock stared up at him. “That’s why I’m leaving it. I don’t want to get it wet. And besides, if I fall in, at least I’ll have something dry to put on. And, it’s July, it’s not that cold out.”

John rolled his eyes and set the coat down after folding it hastily.

“You should leave yours too,” Sherlock added. “And your gloves. Lestrade will probably be here shortly, since our hour is almost up. He should see it and know where we’ve gone.”

John did so without bothering to protest. He then slowly knelt down and with one leg at a time, got into the boat. It took him a moment to get his balance, and then he sat down on the small bench. Sherlock didn’t point out John’s caution, yet he also didn’t offer him a hand. It seemed Sherlock was nearly used to John’s disability and John’s approach to it himself. He wasn’t seeing it as an annoyance, and kept it in mind, but also didn’t bring it up all the time. John was glad at this. After all they had been through the past few months this was worth it. It was a part of their lifestyle now; it didn’t need to be brought up every time with concern and coddling.

Sherlock sat down next to John, closer to the engine. He started it by pulling the ripcord, and then swiftly left the dock. He picked up their speed, and followed the only boat ahead of them on the river.

“What’s the plan?” John asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in thought. “I’ll pull up to the port side, and I’ll turn the engine off once you grab the railing. Think you can reach it and pull yourself up?”

John nodded, but furrowed his eyebrows. “Port side?”

“The left,” Sherlock clarified.

John nodded. “Alright. And you?”

“I’ll go to the starboard side—the right—and meet you at the bow—the front. Fletcher should be at the wheel in the back.”

John nodded with understanding and scooted to the left, closer to the edge of their boat, away from Sherlock. They were catching up quickly, and surprisingly Fletcher hadn’t moved. He was still standing at the wheel.

Sherlock pulled the dinghy up against the large boat and quickly shut off the engine just as John grabbed hold of the railing. He quickly stood and pulled himself up as the sailboat pulled the dinghy along with it. John pulled himself and managed to place his feet on the small walkway that bordered the sailboat. Still in the dinghy, Sherlock drifted away and then disappeared around the other side. John quickly and quietly headed to the front, wary of the slippery ground.

The wind seemed to have come to a chilly pause, emphasizing the cold even more so, John thought, especially without his jacket. He was only wearing a button-up shirt; he didn’t even have a jumper.

John made it to the bow and looked around for Sherlock. He looked out towards the back, and could make out the dinghy floating away, empty. John let out a chilled breath, and then inhaled sharply as he realized the dinghy was diagonally off in the distance, as if they were turning. John turned just in time to see them heading straight into another sailboat, this one anchored and off to the side of them.

The bow slammed into side of the boat, crushing wood and plastic apart. The boats screeched loudly against the quiet. John, who had started to run away from the crash site, fell against the railing, and slipped underneath, nearly falling into the water. He grasped the railing and caught himself. The boats creaked and trembled; the second boat’s boom broke lose from the mast and then swung, slamming into their boat’s own sail mast with a loud bang. The wires snapped and flung around John; one swiped near his face, and he quickly blocked himself, only to wince. He looked down to see a very thin slice across his forearm.

Their boat was still moving into the center of the second boat. John pulled himself upright and attempted to gain his footing, when suddenly there was a loud crack. He looked up to see the mast of the second ship sway; the sail and boom going with the wind and circling back towards them. The mast leaned dangerously towards the side, towards John. John leapt up and limply sprinted away. Mere seconds later his spot was crushed by the falling pole. The boat shook harshly. John lost his footing and fell to his side against the cabin roof. He looked up just in time to see Fletcher running at him, red-faced, with the murder weapon in his hand.

Sherlock had overlooked that little detail.

Fletcher swung the very sharp machete at the closest part of John’s body that he could reach—his leg. John shut his eyes tightly as Fletcher swung fast, and then John gasped sharply when he heard metal hit metal. He looked up at Fletcher with an amused grin, and nearly laughed out loud at Fletcher’s confused expression. Sherlock appeared from behind him with a large oar in his hand, and he whacked Fletcher in the head, hard.

Fletcher collapsed unconscious. John sighed with relief and looked up at Sherlock.

“Where have you been?” John asked, out of breath as the adrenaline started to slow down.

Sherlock looked apologetic for a moment. “Trying not to get squished. Or chopped up.”

John giggled. “Give me a hand.”

With a grin on his face, Sherlock stepped forward, stretching out his hand. There was a loud crack above them, and the mast of their boat, with its opened sail, came falling down towards them.

Immediately, John sprung in a jump and lunged towards Sherlock. He pushed him hard against the railing, pushing him overboard and into the water. John came to a hard landing, his head nearly missing the railing, and landed on his stomach. He managed to turn over as the mast crashed into the cabin roof, spit into two, and then continuing forward, cutting into the boat. Part of the mast landed onto the railing, cracking it and caving in. The boat continued to cave inwards, and the edges crumbled inside. John was dragged along by gravity, and slide down into the wreck, where with a sharp jolt, he came to thud. Water rushed in instantly, flooding the lower compartment where John laid, trapped and unconscious with his feet pinned underneath the mask.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Finally! :)
> 
> One more chapter after this, sort of an epilogue. :) 
> 
> This is shorter than usual but honestly there's only so much angst I could fit in. Hope you like it.

**Chapter 9**

 

John shivered harshly as he jolted awake. He opened his eyes to see water streaming into the hull of the boat, at an alarming rate. He flinched as he became more aware of the startling cold water drenching him.

John looked in front of him to see where the mast had fallen, and his eyes widened as he processed the rather bleak situation. John had fallen through the hole before the mast followed through, crushing through the top of boat first instead of him. The mast had caved the boat inwards, causing the large leak—large enough for a human to fit through. John was partially buried by light debris, except his legs were trapped underneath the collapsed deck and the mast.

His left leg was looser and with enough strength, John thought the debris wouldn’t have to be moved that much to free it. But his right leg was pinned; the debris was pushed hard against his skin and below the knee—again. John nearly rolled his eyes at the déjà-vu.

A sudden cough started John, and he craned his neck to the right. Sherlock squeezed himself through the dented crack in the side of the boat and crawled to John, breathing hard and with blood trickling down his temple.

“Sherlock—God, are you ok?” John demanded roughly.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock dismissed as he observed John’s body. His gaze flickered to his legs, and he stared at the familiar scene for a few seconds before slowly meeting John’s gaze. John noticed his body was trembling, but wasn’t sure if from the cold or from the sight of him underneath the rubble.

“Are you hurt? Anywhere else?” Sherlock clarified. John inhaled slowly and thought about it, but he couldn’t feel any pain, which could still be a bit not good. He shook his head though, and by the gleam in Sherlock’s eyes, he knew John was in shock too.

“Good,” Sherlock said anyway. “Right…” He trailed off, and John watched him stare at his legs again.

“Hey—,” John raised his hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. He gently moved his face so he could meet his gaze, and did so. John rubbed the blood off his cheek gently.

“Don’t panic,” John said.

Sherlock creased his brows. “I’m not. I’m trying to figure out how to get you free. Again,” he added lightly, but his tone didn’t match his eyes. John grinned anyway.

“Maybe…I can wiggle myself out. Try moving some of the debris away,” John suggested.

Sherlock moved towards the caved in part of the boat. Water was rising quickly around them, drenching John’s shoulders. He was holding himself upward by his elbows, and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his chin above the water for very long. Sherlock shifted some of the bits of flooring off John’s legs. His left leg loosened, and easily it was free. But there was nowhere to move it too. On both sides were heavy pieces of the ceiling caved in and overlapping another. John tried to move his right foot, and only managed to flinch it. However, he could feel a little more room near his ankle.

John lifted himself higher just as the water rose over his chest. He spluttered some of it and looked at Sherlock, who was looking at him with wide eyes.

“The other side,” Sherlock said.

John nodded. “I can feel my ankle. It might be visible on the other side of the hull and debris. Maybe you can click the pin free and my stump will slide out of the prosthetic.”

Sherlock inhaled slowly. “It might work. But it might not.”

John shrugged. “I don’t have much time.” His voice wavered against his control. Sherlock ran a bloody hand over his face and furrowed his brows. He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking of another way, but as the water rose to his waist and dangerously close to John’s chin, and hardened his expression and nodded. Sherlock crawled towards John and kissed him hard. John kissed him back, and too quickly Sherlock pulled away.

“I’ll click the pin free, and then I’ll swim out. I’ll wait for you—,”

John shook his head. “No, go to shore—,”

“No, I’ll wait for you,” Sherlock said. “It shouldn’t take you long to get through that hole. I’ll meet you up there.”

John was reluctant, but by Sherlock’s expression, the man was determined not to change his plan. John slowly nodded. Sherlock leaned in for a moment, as if to kiss him once more, but instead he turned around and waded through the water towards the hole. He didn’t look back as he squeezed through it, and then he was gone.

John waited anxiously for the familiar click on his ankle to release. He hoped he’d feel Sherlock’s hand too, just to be assured he was there. The water rose past his chin suddenly. John gasped and arched his back to keep his head above the water level. He was pinned just enough to do so, and glancing towards his feet, John thought he had enough room to sit up. He did so, but then pain shuddered through his chest, sending him crying out and collapsing onto his back and into the water.

John took a short breath, grimacing, as he fell beneath the water. He presumed his ribs must be injured then, not broken, but possibly fractured. _I definitely was in shock then for not feeling it before_ , he thought grimly.

Preparing himself, John lifted himself out of the water by arching his back and pushing up with his palms. His ribs hurt like hell and he could only take in small breaths, but his face was out of the water. The water level was near his mouth, and would cover his ears if he tilted his head backwards.

A gentle hold grasped John by the right ankle, bringing him back into focus. He felt the click release the pin, and his leg loosened in his prosthetic. The hand left his skin and disappeared. John wiggled his leg from the prosthetic, but couldn’t quite free it. Quickly, the water rose over his mouth and he sputtered. John could feel himself start to panic, but he tried to focus and refrain from doing so.

He took a breath and lowered his head into the water just as it rose completely over his face. He held his breath as he tried to free his stump. He scooted closer and pressed his left foot against the debris, and then pushed hard. Some of the debris shifted, and then his stump was released.

John swam away from the wreckage and headed towards the hole. He squeezed through it easily and finally swam out of the boat. He looked around for Sherlock, but didn’t see him anywhere. The other side of the boat was caved in more than the other side, and the hole that Sherlock presumably went through was blocked.

John’s eyes widened with horror, but his lungs started to burn and he needed air. He kicked towards the surface and gulped for air. He looked around but only saw the two sinking boats and a life raft that had floated out of nowhere. Police lights were glowing in the distance, but too far away to hear him yell.

John took a deep breath and then lowered himself back into the water. He swarm to where Sherlock had gone, and tried to examine the hole, but the water was too dark for him to see anything clearly as the lights from the boat flickered completely off. John was surrounded by darkness, and fear overwhelmed him.

A flicker of light caught John’s eye. He swam closer to the boat, and could just barely make out the side of a pale arm drifting away. John fluttered his legs as fast as he could and reached forward. He wrapped his hand around the pale wrist and pulled. Sherlock floated towards him. John glanced at his face only to see Sherlock’s eyes closed and blood seeping from a cut on his forehead, surrounding them in a faint red haze. John wrapped his arm under Sherlock’s arm and around his waist, and then kicked upwards.

He broke the surface with a gasp and gulped for air. Looking around, he spotted the inflated raft and began swimming towards it, dragging Sherlock’s limp body behind him. John heaved his lover over the edge and then lifted himself up. He collapsed into the raft and gasped for air. His ribs and his chest hurt but John ignored it. Exhausted, he lifted himself up on his palms and looked at Sherlock. He placed him onto his back and tilted his neck up. John lowered himself and listened closer, but he couldn’t hear Sherlock breathing.

Composing himself, John straightened up and placed his palms on Sherlock’s chest. The raft wasn’t flat enough to do proper resuscitation, but it would have to do. He started compressions, and counted, and then leaned forward and blew air into Sherlock’s mouth, breathing for him.

_Don’t do this—not after everything—please—god, please, Sherlock—_

John performed chest compressions on Sherlock. He quickly lost track of time. It was getting colder, but John didn’t notice that either. He only saw Sherlock’s blue lips and glazed eyes, which were slightly parted open, starring back up at him. John avoided looking at him as much as he could. He counted the heart beats he was performing for Sherlock, muttering the numbers under his breath, and then stopping, leaning forward, and breathing into Sherlock’s mouth, and then starting all over again. He was getting tired. A voice in the back of his head told him it was too late, that Sherlock was gone, but John threatened himself—he told himself to shut up or else—

John couldn’t breathe for himself. He didn’t even notice his own fatigue; his strain for air increased after each breath for Sherlock was given. He inhaled and exhaled for Sherlock and ignored the pain increasing in his own chest.

Red and blue lights flashed around him, and a boat emerged beside the emergency raft. John didn’t acknowledge it. He continued to compress Sherlock’s chest, and refused to give up.

In a flurry of motion, John paused for only a moment until Sherlock was lifted onto the boat and strapped to a backboard and gurney. John very nearly leaped into the boat, hopping on his one foot, and then immediately continued to beat Sherlock’s heart. He barely managed a glare at the paramedics before ignoring them completely. The boat moved quickly back to the docks.

John faintly caught Lestrade’s voice, and paused once more as Sherlock was lifted onto land and wheeled into an ambulance directly parked on the dock. John barely registered a paramedic helping him onto dry land and into the ambulance, and then he was restarting his actions. The ambulance sped off; Lestrade was beside John, silent. He wrapped John’s discarded jacket over John’s shoulders. John didn’t acknowledge him as he leaned down to give Sherlock air. He continued to beat Sherlock’s chest painfully, feeling his ribs bend dangerously beneath his palms. He flickered his gaze over Sherlock’s face, and then refrained from doing so again. Sherlock was deathly pale; his lips were faintly blue and his eyes… John looked away and tried to forget the emptiness Sherlock’s usual lively grey eyes were now producing.

The ambulance sped down the streets in its usual rush.

As they moved with every jolt and bump the ambulance went through, John breathed for Sherlock. John compressed. John closed his eyes and repeated his actions. _One, two, three, four…breathe, dammit, breathe!_

Then, there was a shudder…then a cough meeting his lips. John leaned away and opened his eyes. Sherlock was staring up at him still, his eyes blank. But then his lips quivered. John inhaled and didn’t let it out. He waited and watched. Sherlock’s lips quivered again, and then he blinked.

Sherlock arched his back and coughed up water. John moved back into his seat as Sherlock turned onto his side on the gurney, and he heaved the rest of the water out of his lungs and stomach. Sherlock shuddered and coughed. John finally exhaled.

John weakly lifted himself back onto his knees so he could fully look at Sherlock. Sherlock was slouching forward, nearly curling in on himself, and breathing heavily.

“Sherlock?” John murmured. All his energy was drained from his body, he could barely think of anything else except Sherlock’s wellbeing. He was exhausted physically and emotionally, but he managed to inch closer to Sherlock until he could reach him without straining himself. John lowered his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder blade and held it there. Sherlock shivered beneath him.

“Sh…” John started.

Sherlock twisted around and weakly wrapped his arms around John. John slouched in his embrace as Sherlock slouched against him. His breathing was ragged yet existing. John listened to it closely, focusing on the breath tickling his neck and the movement Sherlock’s chest was making against his. They remained still for several moments, and didn’t notice the ambulance come to a halt outside the hospital.

*            *            *           

John entered Sherlock’s hospital room, using a pair of crutches to do so. He stopped in the doorway, despite his exhaustion, to see Sherlock climbing out of bed and pulling the cords and wires off his body, disconnecting himself from the monitors.

“Wh-what the hell are you doing?” John demanded.

Sherlock glanced at him, but didn’t pause his actions. “Leaving. Going home.”

“Why?”

“Because, I’m fine, John. We’re fine—,”

“No, no—you were…dead for…I don’t even know how long, I lost track because I was too busy breathing for you, pumping the blood in your veins to keep your heart from stopping, so you get back into the damn bed, Sherlock!”

John inhaled sharply to catch his breath, and swayed on his feet slightly. Sherlock stared at him, gaping for only a second, before relaxing. He climbed back into be and pulled the covers over his chest, keeping his gaze lowered. John followed suit, not caring about the sheets as he climbed onto it and lay against Sherlock’s side. He turned on his side and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock leaned against him and rested his head against John’s.

“You must be exhausted,” John pointed out tiredly. “You have to rest, your heart, it—,”

John cut himself off and stiffly rolled towards Sherlock and laid his arm over his abdomen. Sherlock turned closer to him and wrapped his arms around him tightly. John tightened his hold and exhaled slowly.

“Rest,” he ordered.

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock replied lightly. He tightened his around John’s shoulder, and in each other’s embrace, they fell asleep.

*            *            *

John and Sherlock slowly awoke the next day well into the morning. John opened his eyes first, and considered going back to sleep at the slight of Sherlock still sleeping beside him, but his consideration was cut short when Sherlock opened his own eyes.

John stared at Sherlock fondly, and Sherlock stared back. Their eyebrows drooped on their relaxed faced, and their eyes glistened lovingly at each other. John found he could drown in Sherlock’s eyes and be perfectly happy. He slowly smiled and raised his hand. He caressed Sherlock’s cheek and then cupped his jaw, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his jaw. Sherlock relaxed even more against the touch and his eyes fluttered. Sherlock leaned forward and rested his forehead against John’s. They cuddled closer together, pressing their foreheads together and bumping their noses against the other’s cheeks. They looked at each silently, and simultaneously drifted off into a light doze, basking in each other’s touch and the sound of their breathing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this last short chapter! Entirely fluff... well for the most part :)
> 
> inspired too based off this ask I got :) http://fortheloveofjawn.tumblr.com/post/141151486127/i-have-a-sad-headcanon-that-long-after-the-three

**Chapter 10**

**Six Weeks Later**

_John could see Sherlock unconscious by the boat, with red gleaming in the dark water. He swam towards him, and then grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, but he wouldn’t move closer. John looked closer to see Sherlock’s arm pinned by debris and the boat._

_The water around them darkened with more red, and pain shot through John’s leg, paralyzing him. He choked, and couldn’t seem to breathe anymore. He thought he was doing fine before._

_John couldn’t see where the blood was coming from, and it only continued to thicken, burning his eyes and choking him._

John flinched awake and immediately set his eyes on Sherlock’s sleeping form beside him. He scooted closer and rested against him, applying his cheek between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock, still asleep, shifted around and pulled John closer. The pain in John’s leg was nearly gone now; it was only a faint sore than anything else.

“We’re getting married,” John whispered, sounding surprised, although he wasn’t; they had planning it since the Fletcher case six weeks ago.

Sherlock hummed beside him, waking up. “No for two more days,” he mumbled. John smiled softy.

“I can’t wait.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and softly smiled back.

“We have to practice the dance. Stop putting it off,” he added. John pretended to groan, but he nodded anyway.

“I’ll get ready.”

*            *            *

“Why do we have to practice?” John asked. “Isn’t the point of a first dance to be our _first_?” He grinned at his own remark, and eyed Sherlock, who was moving their armchairs out of the way.

“It’ll be our first dance as a married couple,” Sherlock pointed out in his tone when pointing out the obvious. “Surely you should be the one to insist this. Now come along.”

Sherlock straightened up and raised his arms into a proper hold. “Shall I lead?”

John reluctantly stepped forward, familiar now with his newer prosthetic.

“What about music?” John asked.

“Don’t need it yet. I’ll just hum.”

“Can I lead?”

“Can you reach?”

“Hey—,”

Sherlock chuckled as he took a step forward. John followed him by walking backwards and, out of habit, started to look down at their feet.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me.”

John’s balance faltered and he widened his eyes at that familiar phrase. Sherlock halted and looked down at him. John slowly met his gaze, feeling his face pale of color.

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered. John nodded, and restarted the step.

John followed Sherlock’s movements as Sherlock lead them into a basic routine. His leg felt as it usually did nowadays, but as Sherlock stepped forward and John stepped backward, John’s prosthetic started to feel more obvious and in the way of naturally dancing.

“—Hang on, Sherlock—.” John’s cheeks burned and he lowered his head, directing his gaze to their feet. His right leg started to feel sore, and a familiar phantom pain was tingling beneath his skin. He hadn’t felt that since the boat accident, and feeling it now just before the wedding disappointed John. He had thought he had moved on almost completely.

John took a step back, when the prosthetic pinched his skin just right, causing him to flinch and his balance to falter. Sherlock tightened his hold on John’s back and caught him before he fell, but John scoffed and unraveled himself from Sherlock’s embrace.

He sat stiffly in his chair and pinched his nose. Sherlock stepped in front of him.

“John…”

“It’s nothing,” John started. “Just…you know.”

Sherlock knelt down and looked at John. He placed his hand over John’s and squeezed it.

“I do know. We don’t have to dance—,”

“I want to,” John interrupted and smiled softly. “I really do.”

Sherlock flickered his eyes over John’s face and then sighed.

“I…may not be able to fix your leg this time,” Sherlock started.

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m not asking you too,” John started.

Sherlock placed a finger over John’s lips, shushing him. Sherlock slowly smiled and continued.

“I think I can help though. I was…I was going to wait until after the wedding; my wedding present for you.”

John furrowed his eyebrows.

“What is it?”

Sherlock hesitated, and then he stood up and walked down the hallway to their bedroom. John could hear him shuffling through something, likely under the bed. Sherlock returned with a rectangle box and placed it in John’s lap.

John looked at the box curiously, and then at Sherlock. Sherlock stood in front of him, still, with his hands placed in front of him, and very nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet with nerves.

John shot him a smile of assurance. “You don’t need to be nervous, love.”

Sherlock breathed out deeply and nodded. “Open it.”

John did, and slowly smiled. He looked up at Sherlock and laughed.

“You actually got _me_ body parts.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he laughed.

“They’re all for you.”

John smiled wide. He looked at the box and started to look at each individual item. In the box were four different types of prosthetic feet.

“There’s one for just sitting,” Sherlock started. “That one, the proprio foot. It’s good for minimal activity but also for stairs and such. When we have a case, there’s that one.” He pointed to the one on the left. It was shaped like the letter J.

“It’s called a cheetah sometimes; it’s a flex foot, and so is the other, but that one is more shaped like a foot. It’ll be good for—,”

“For keeping up with you.” John looked at Sherlock and his expression softened. “And the fourth one. It’s looks like the cheetah one but not as angled.

“It’s more curved, for something specific. There’s no extra curve as an ankle, it’s just a simple j, like John…” Sherlock lowered his gaze at the light joke. John chuckled.

Sherlock smiled and looked back up. “It can worn for dancing,” Sherlock explained softly. John swallowed tightly.

“If you still want to,” Sherlock added.

John looked at him. He could feel his eyes well up with tears, so he blinked a few times and reached for Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it.

“If this means I can dance with for the rest of my life, I will,” John said.

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward. They met halfway and kissed gently. John pulled away and cleared his throat.

“Would you do the honors?”

Sherlock knelt down and unhinged John’s prosthetic foot off the leg. He picked up the cheetah flex foot and placed it on John. John giggled abruptly.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re my prince charming,” John said with a smirk.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock said as he finished with the foot.

“Placing my shoe on,” John explained as he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock. “It’s not mockery, just be flattered.”

Sherlock smirked and kissed him again. He stood up swiftly and held out his arm.

“Now, John, may I have this dance?”

John looked up at him, took his hand, and stood up.

“Now and forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long, but I hope you all enjoyed this fic none the less.
> 
> Pretty please, leave a comment. It means so much to me :)


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